


Everyone Can See

by venilia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: D/s elements, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Jossed, Knotting, M/M, Multi, Pining, Pre Season/Series 03, magic tattoos, mpreg as a kink, porn star, slight dub con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venilia/pseuds/venilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just - just the photos though, right?” Stiles asks.</p><p>“Mmm,” she hums. “Full frontal, with a partner and orgasms.”</p><p>Stiles chokes.</p><p>“Non-penetrative,” she adds.</p><p>Stiles bangs his head lightly on his desk, loses his grip on his phone, and has to dive for it before it hits the grimy carpet. He shoves it up to his ear in time to hear her saying “-or now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Classlicity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Classlicity/pseuds/Classlicity) had a Truely Awful Vacation, which lead to an Incredilbly Awful Return to Work. 
> 
> "Oh sweetie," said I. "Give me but a prompt and I shall cheer thee."
> 
> "I desire Stiles to star in the pornography," said she. 
> 
> And then I wrote 22k (and counting) of porn, with a side of plot, which the beautiful [dome_epais](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dome_epais/pseuds/dome_epais) volunteered to beta. If something has been missed I gaurentee it's due to me fiddling. 
> 
> See end notes re: dub con. It really is mild, but you know your own triggers.

He finds the journal at the bottom of collection of Victorian doorknobs. It’s leather with an iron clasp, a tiny skeleton key twisty-tied to it. Stiles opens the lock and leafs through, curious. 

 

As soon as he turns the page Stiles knows _this is it_ , sharp like an electric current up his spine. It’s _beautiful_ , an open-mawed fox winding through the roots of an ash tree, nine stars under its paws.The bare-lined sketch was inked with pen, rough and more stylistic than realistic. Stiles is in love. 

 

He’s at an estate sale thirty miles out of his way back to Berkeley where he’s about to start his sophomore year because he was pretty sure Mrs. Cassandra Delenda neé Jameson was the same Cassandra Jameson Deaton once called the most powerful spark-witch on the West coast. In the eighteen hundreds. 

 

Stiles has to use herbs and runes to do magic, but the thing about being a spark is that with the right tools he’s powerful. Scary powerful, in a way he can’t think about often.

Stiles knows himself, and he’s not always a good person at heart.

 

This will go on his upper back, the fox’s brush trailing partly down one arm, the planets lining up neatly along his bottom left rib, and the roots twisting up to cover his right shoulder, flowers dripping down his shoulderblade. Using this as his anchor Stiles will be able to use other tattoos and keep them afterwards, unlike last month when an omega was stalking Erica. 

 

She was five months pregnant, hunching around her belly protectively, and Boyd was still regrowing his left leg. Stiles ended up burning through the runes on his left wrist protecting them while he waited for the cavalry to arrive. His wrist is covered in light scar tissue now, and he can’t use that patch of skin for magic anymore. It feels numb.

 

Stiles flips the journal to check the price, and then he sits down in the grass for a few minutes because the last time he saw a number this big it was his college tuition fees. 

 

He jumps up to find the estate trustee.

 

“Is this really the price?” he asks.

 

The lady squints at his scuffed Chucks and Futurama t-shirt, unimpressed. 

 

“Mrs. Cassandra Delenda was an accomplished artist and noted philanthropist,” she says. “If you aren’t going to buy anything there are plenty of other customers waiting.” She peers at him for a moment, eying the patch of scar tissue on his wrist and adding, “Certain elements of... _style_... drive the price up, of course. It would be a shame for the wrong sort of collector to pick Mrs. Delenda’s private work up as a conversation piece.” She looks at him expectantly.

 

Stiles nods, jiggling the journal against his leg while he thinks. If he only eats cafeteria food for the next two semesters, and if his Jeep doesn’t need any serious repairs, and if he uses Deaton as his tattooist instead of the mage he knows in San Francisco then he’ll only need to come up with... about four hundred dollars.

 

“You’ll note that there are many personal thoughts as well as artwork,” the estate lady says. “And commentary on her _unique_ social circles.”

 

Yeah, Stiles noticed. There’s a section in there that if he’s not mistaken outlines werewolf pregnancy customs, which the pack sorely needs. He saw the word spark four times as he leafed through.

 

Stiles sighs and digs through his wallet to pay the lady. 

 

It will cost maybe another hundred for the tattooing because he’s not going to use Deaton if he can help it, and expecting his Jeep to hold out all winter is a pipedream. Stiles argues with himself all the way to Berkeley, but he already knows what he’s going to do. But that can wait until after he calls his dad and Derek; Dad to reassure him everything’s fine, Derek because he’s bossy. 

 

Or that’s what they pretend, anyway.

 

 

 

 

“Heeeeey,” Stiles says when Derek picks up. 

 

“You were supposed to check in two hours ago.”

 

“Yeah, no. I said ‘I’ll probably get there around two’. There were no promises, buddy.” 

 

Derek does that slow breathe-out-through-his-nose thing that means he’s remembering that Stiles is human and he can’t alpha him into submission. Stiles leans back against his bare mattress (there’s a weird stain in one corner. He’s totally flipping this thing over before he puts his bottom sheet on) and smiles. 

 

“You know I can take care of myself,” Stiles says, because that’s what the real issues is. Derek _worries_. 

 

“If you ran into something-”

 

“I’m wearing a shirt with Scott’s sweat all over it. Trust me, even a human can smell it,” Stiles and Scott had goofed around with their lacross equipment before he left, and afterwards Scott had given him a big, sweaty hug because he thought he was subtle. Stiles is totally on to him, though. Scott’s a sweetheart. 

 

“Anyway, I have stuff with me,” a wolfsbane version of pepperspray that Lydia created, and the mixture of crumbled oak punk wood and white alder leaves that Stiles has been playing around with to make fireballs. Well, okay he’s mostly doing fire circles right now. Semantics. 

 

“Met your roommate?” Derek asks. 

 

“Mikhail. Poli sci major. Nice dude.” He and Stiles already have an agreement about socks on the doorknob, pulling all nighters down in the commons, and not stealing each other’s food from the mini-fridge. 

 

Derek’s silent on the other end. Stiles doesn’t fill up the silence. He listens to Derek’s breathing, to the windchime in the background that means he’s on his porch, probably covered in engine grease like a Beefcake centerfold because he tinkers with his sister’s car when he’s fretting. 

 

“Call you next week?” Stiles offers. It’s not an obligation. Derek tries to stay out of his packmates’ business, tries to trust them and not ride roughshod over them. But Stiles can give him this. He knows how it is to fret about family. 

 

“If you want,” Derek says because he’s not going to break his manly stoicism to say something like thank you. They’re guys. They don’t do mushy. 

 

“Yeah, dude. I’ll whine about my professors and you can keep me updated on Erica’s pregnancy adventures. It’ll be be _fun_ ” Stiles sounds sarcastic but he realizes he means it and Derek maybe can hear that, can hear how much he wants to talk on the phone with Derek like thirteen year old bffs. Because Stiles’ crush wasn’t already obvious. 

 

“Oh, here comes Mikhail,” Stiles lies. “I should go help him bring up his stuff. So... bye!” 

 

“...bye.” 

 

“Yeah, tootles!,” Stiles says because his life is made of embarrassing himself. He facepalms. 

 

“Next week,” Derek answers. It sounds like an order, but it’s really a question. 

 

“Gotcha!” Stiles says, and then he hangs up. 

 

“Well,” he tells his empty dorm room. “That was awkward.” 

 

 

 

 

After his stuff is organized and his Mikhail has gone out for dinner with his parents Stiles digs out the business card he’s been trying to forget about and dials the number. It’s six o’clock. Maybe he can leave a message. 

 

“Yes?” a woman answer sharply.

 

“Betty, baby!” Stiles says, trying to be cheerful. He sounds like an idiot.

 

“Don’t call me Betty,” Beth says automatically. Then her voice becomes warm. “So, you finally decided to take my offer, Stiles? I can’t give you that discount any more. Time ran out for that, now that you’re nineteen.” 

 

Her voice isn’t just warm, it’s molten lava cake topped with gooey caramel. Stiles digs his fingernails into his leg, trying to stop his erection.

 

“I’m getting tattooed,” he offers. “Surely that’s worth another fifty.”

 

Beth laughs. “Oh Stiles,” she says. “For you I’ll throw in an extra thirty, but you better make it worth my while.”

 

“Just - just the photos though, right?” Stiles asks.

 

“Mmm,” she hums. “Full frontal, with a partner and orgasms.”

 

Stiles chokes.

 

“Non-penetrative,” she adds.

 

Stiles bangs his head lightly on his desk, loses his grip on his phone, and has to dive for it before it hits the grimy carpet. He shoves it up to his ear in time to hear her saying “-or now.”

 

“Right, right,” he says.

 

“And I don’t like using fluffers,” she adds. “But I won’t need to, will I Stiles? Bet you’re hard just listening to me talk.”

 

“I hate you,” Stiles informs her honestly.

 

“But you love my money. Next Saturday, nine o’clock. Bring your last test results and _don’t wear boxers_.”

 

Stiles steels himself, remembers Erica’s relief when the omega found himself glued to the ground, unable to move, and says, “It’s a deal.”

 

“I expect you bright eyed and bushy tailed, Sparkles,” Beth says before the line goes dead because she’s evil like that. Fucking sirens.

 

 

 

 

Stiles gets the outline done Friday afternoon. His back aches while the magic is still sinking in, but it’s worth it. He loves it. He really loves it, he reminds himself as he steps into Beth’s studio and watches the smile spread across Beth’s face.

 

Stiles hates her smug face. And her Betty Boop hairdo, and her adorable hipster dress, and her pale blue-veined skin. Others might be tricked into thinking Beth is a cute, artistic girl with a real eye for boudoir photography, but Stiles is not fooled. She’s got a grin to rival the Chesire Cat and is far too invested in getting Stiles naked for a lady who doesn’t want to sleep with him.

 

Beth makes shooing motions at her assistant and a few seconds later Beth and Stiles are alone in the sparse, one room studio. Just them and the photography equipment and the king-sized bed.

 

Stiles isn’t nervous.

 

“Weren’t sure if you were going to make it, Sparkles!” Beth smiles with her sharp little teeth. 

 

“Okay, see, that’s not a great way to keep me here. Call me that again and I’m gone.” Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets. 

 

“Josh will be here in a few minutes,” Beth says. “Take care of this while we wait.” She hands him a clipboard and a pen, and motions towards the chair in the corner. Stiles fills out the paperwork while trying not to wonder about Josh.

 

The door opens as he’s signing his signature and when Stiles looks up Josh is. Wow. Josh is wow. Like, Derek levels of wow. He’s really, really... built. Hey there, miles of muscles. So nice to meet you.

 

Stils might be drooling.

 

He has green eyes. And stubble. And really broad shoulders. Did Stiles mention the stubble? His skin is honey dark, and judging from what’s peaking out of his v-neck lightly furred but not like, caveman levels. Just enough furring.

 

Beth motions towards Stiles. “Yeah?” she asks.

 

Josh shows off his white teeth when he smiles. He hooks a finger under Stiles’ chin, lifting his face until their eyes meet. His eyes flash gold.

 

Stiles refuses to flinch. He glares back, keeping his heart rate steady. The Hale pack isn’t famous, but the other wolves in California know how much Derek doesn’t tolerate members of his pack being fucked with. All Stiles has to do is speed dial Scott or Derek and Josh will... well he might not run for the hills. But he’ll definitely think twice about hurting him. But look he’s sweeping up and down Stiles’ body doesn’t exactly say _malicious_ so much as it says _going to fuck you until you’re limping_.

 

“Yeah,” Josh says, slowly. “I think he’ll be just right.”

 

“Hold that thought,” Beth says. She scurries around them for a minute setting up lights with those umbrella things behind them, and positioning cameras.

 

Josh seems content to eyefuck Stiles while all this goes on, and Stiles refuses to look away. He’s part of a pack. He knows how dominance works. Even if his eyes are watering and his dick maybe twitches when Josh licks his lips.

 

By the time Beth says, “Okay, touch him,” Stiles is already panting lightly, trying not to tremble.

 

Josh flickers his eyes down and leans close -- oh, he’s looking at Stiles’ neck -- breathing in his ear, “I’m going to undress you. You’re going to be pretty for the camera and let me take care of everything. Okay?” He licks Stiles’ earlobe and who knew that made fizzles shoot down to his dick? But Josh is still waiting. “Stiles. Okay?”

 

Stiles swallows, and nods his head. 

 

Josh rumbles lowly, his chest against Stiles’. He pulls away, taking Stiles’ shirt with him until Stiles’ arms are up over his head. Josh sways forward so their chests are pressed together and kisses Stiles, slow and lush, licking Stiles’ bottom lip and not letting Stiles control the kiss at all.

 

The camera flashes and flickers at the corner of Stiles’ eye. Stiles closes his eyes and tries to get his bearings.

 

“Tilt his head,” Beth says. She must be a little aroused too, even if she is a lesbian, because her voice is all siren-y, like dark chocolate and spices, and okay, Stiles is completely hard now. 

 

He bites his own lip but Josh’s lip is against his so it gets nipped. 

 

Josh grips the nape of his neck and gives him a gentle shake.“You’re not in charge here, pretty,” he says. 

 

Stiles nods, automatically. Yep, nope, he’s totally not. He’s really aware of that, thanks.

 

Beth sighs. “Next time I’m getting you two on film. The chemistry is great,” she says.

 

“Still not doing film,” Stiles protests. Beth contracts with a small porn company and the porn is much more explicit and hardcore than her Playboy-ish erotica, if Playboy liked vulnerable humans having sex with various supernatural creatures. The pornography links from her website. Everyone who buys Come Hither magazine can see it.

 

“Uh-huh,” Beth says absently. “Josh, show him off a little. Stiles, pretend he’s your boyfriend or something.”

 

Yeah, right.

 

Josh kicks off his shoes, motioning for Stiles to do the same. Socks too, because Stiles might be doing gay erotica but he has standards, okay? He’s still wearing his jeans, going to let Josh take those off when he wants. Josh strips off his own shirt and pants, but leaves on his boxer-briefs which is kind of hilarious because it’s obscene. His dick is hard, wet at the tip, his briefs clinging to his dick and making Stiles’ mouth water.

 

Josh reaches for Stiles arm and spins him, leaning him back against Josh’s chest so he’s taking Stiles’ weight. He strokes down slow and firm until his fingers can play with the button of Stiles’ jeans, thumb brushing the tip of Stiles’ dick through the cloth. 

 

Stiles whimpers as heat trickles down his spine, but he can’t help turning his head away from the camera. He’s not sure how comfortable he is with this. He hates hook-ups with strangers, and a non-pack werewolf touching him like he has the right is _weird_.

 

“Hmm.” Beth takes the camera from her face. “Stiles,” she says, voice heavy and dark against his skin, “I want you to think about Josh as your boyfriend. You don’t get this much because he can have anyone he wants, and he does. And you don’t mind because whatever he gives you is more than enough, isn’t it?”

 

Stiles wants to protest because nice fantasy, whatever floats your boat, but he’s a monogamous sort of guy. He’d waltz out the door if a partner ever cheated on him. He’s too busy gulping oxygen to get that out, Josh’s thumb still teasing the head of his dick. 

 

“No?” Beth eyes him. “How about your boyfriend’s out of town right now but he sent Josh, his trusted beta, to take care of you. This camera, it’s going to show him how grateful you are that he takes care of you.”

 

Okay, yeah, that’s working better. His strong, protective, alpha boyfriend -- not Derek, not really. But an alpha -- taking care of him, trusting his pack to take care of Stiles. Showing him off.

 

“He’s not allowed to fuck you,” Beth continues, filth like silk, “just give you a hand. Make you come good and hard. Give you a cock to suck because you need that, don’t you Stiles?”

 

Josh brushes his knuckles up and down Stiles’ cock through his jeans. 

 

Stiles moans.

 

“Perfect,” Beth purrs. “You’re a beautiful boy, Stiles. Gorgeous, and your alpha is going to show these photos off, let everyone see what he has. Perfect strangers are going to see you open-mouthed and wanting.”

 

This is what she’ll caption the photos with too, because Beth is a hipster and likes to make up her own rules for her magazine, fuck convention. 

 

Stiles has seen her work before, a sweet little omega wolf being taken by an alpha as her welcome to the pack, spread wide on his knot, sheets bunched so that there was only a hint of genitals. His hand was wrapped around her throat in the shot, the angle off center enough to forget about the premise, like it was real life caught and pasted into a magazine, captions below about what a good girl she was, how tight her cunt was around the alpha’s knot, how she came when he told her to. 

 

Stiles might have a copy under his bed at home. He’s not telling.

 

Josh rumbles again, and with his tattoo pressed against him Stiles feels it all through his system.

 

“Wouldn’t be allowed to fuck the alpha’s mate,” Josh mutters, “but if you’re a very good boy I bet the alpha will let me come on you, rub the pack scent into your skin.” He buries his face in Stiles’ armpit and takes a good whiff. “Oh, I bet I know who you belong to,” he whispers, lips against Stiles’. Stiles’ arms are still over his head, where Josh put them, and Josh is holding him up, holding him together as he lowers Stiles’ zipper.

 

It’s kind of insane how much this is turning Stiles on. He doesn’t want his own pack touching him like this, but the dirty talk has Stiles’ hips squirming.

 

“Look at the camera,” Josh says in his ear. “Let him see you. You know he’s going to see you..”

 

Beth snorts softly, and Stiles doesn’t know that that means but he knows exactly what he’s been trying to avoid thinking about, _who_ he’s been trying to avoid thinking about. He gives in, thinks Derek, Derek seeing this, wanting this. Getting off to this?

 

“Fuck,” Beth says. “That’s it.”

 

Josh toys with the band of Stiles’ white boxer briefs. He reaches in the slit to takes out Stiles’ dick out and give it a long, slow stroke that Stiles feels down to his knees.

 

“Keep looking,” Josh orders, and Stiles does. He keeps looking at the camera as Josh shoves his jeans and underwear down to his ankles. Josh takes him apart, piece by piece. His touch stays slow, and Stiles feels like he’s caught in molasses. Everything is hot and sticky. His insides clench, empty, and his dick is slick with precome.

 

Fuck, he wants.

 

When his hips thrust Josh nips his shoulder painfully and slows down until his fingers are lightly gliding up and down Stiles’ wet cock, barely there. Then his nipple is twisted sharply between Josh’s fingers, and Beth’s heavy voice says, “Stiles, no moving your hips. Take what your alpha allows you,” and Stiles is going to come before his pants are all the way off.

 

He whimpers and lets go of everything, lets his imagination tell him it’s Derek behind his back, showing him off to the camera, giving him orders.

 

“Good boy, Stiles,” Beth says. “Perfect. Josh, I want him to come before he blows you. Get it everywhere.”

 

Josh chuckles. “Can do,” he says, and takes his hands off Stiles completely. 

 

Stiles wants those hands back, he wants something touching him, but then Josh’s hands are on his sides, fingers sliding down until they’re slotted into the grooves of Stiles’ hipbones and Stiles relaxes. 

 

Josh pulls him by the hips until Stiles ass is nestled against his covered dick and rocks them both while he licks and nips at Stiles’ neck.

 

“See that clock on the wall?” Josh asks. Stiles opens his eyes and yeah, big clock. “Alpha said you can come in two minutes, but not until then,” Josh says, “and no touching your dick.”

 

Stiles whimpers. God, that’s hot. It’s something Derek would do, too, that control obsessed freak.

 

Josh keeps thrusting, slow like a heatwave, hard, and almost where Stiles needs him. 

 

He makes it one minute, but then he’s starting to worry, not sure if he can come without anything touching him.

 

“My nipples,” he mutters. “I need something, _please_.”

 

“Uh-uh,” Josh denies. “We all know you don’t.” He thrusts against Stiles’ ass, sucking hickies into his throat while the clock counts down.

 

“You’re going to do it perfectly, Stiles,” Beth says, voice thick and low, like the bass line in a club, and yes, that helps. 

 

Stiles is almost there. Thirty-six more seconds. He rubs his ass back against Josh, aching and wishing. Thirty-two. Fuck, fuck, he needs this. Needs Derek like this. Needs Derek to see how much he wants it.

 

Josh pushes the head of his dick snug against Stiles’ hole even through his underwear. There’s almost nothing separating them, and it gets him off, the thought of Derek stripping him, putting his nose right there against Stiles’ hole to make sure Josh didn’t overstep his bounds.

 

Twenty. 

 

Josh slides a hand down his briefs, feeling Stiles’ass,. He finds his hole, rubbing it a little. Stiles feels how his hole clings to Josh’s fingers, completely willing to be fucked. Then Josh takes away his fingers and there are ten seconds left. They’re not moving anymore, both Josh’s hands on Stiles’ hips keeping him still. 

 

Seven seconds. Four.

 

Josh whispers in his ear, “Here we go, Stiles. Show Derek how much you want him to fuck you. You need him to fuck you so bad, your hole is _empty_ ,” and Stiles comes. Josh rubs his hole again, coaxing out an extra spurt and a full body shudder as Stiles collapses against him. 

 

Beth’s camera is suddenly a foot away, taking in Stiles’ dazed, fucked-out look, the way his belly is covered in his own come.

 

“Good, that’s going to be beautiful,” Beth says.

 

They arrange him on the bed while Stiles is still dopey from orgasm. Then Josh’s underwear are off and his dick is thick and uncut and Stiles is really happy to have it in his mouth.

 

He kisses the head and gets used to the taste of Josh’s precome -- not too bitter, though Stiles only has his own taste and one hookup to compare it to. 

 

Josh leans over Stiles so his knees on either side of Stiles’ head, hands on the headboard, and slides his dick forward into Stiles’ mouth. He stares as Stiles slurps his dick into his mouth, eyes glazing over and mouth dropping open stupidly. He doesn’t look like he’ll last long. The headboard creaks as he squeezes it. 

 

Stiles keeps closing his eyes, imagining it’s Derek’s dick. He’s only done this a few times but he’s kind of good at it since he has no gag reflex. It makes partying or being sick a bitch because he can’t throw up, but it makes blow jobs awesome. Josh enjoys it, grunting and fucking Stiles’ face slowly, what is it with this guy and going slowly? Is it a werewolf thing? Will Derek do it like this?

 

“Stiles,” Beth says, voice full of siren call again, “I need you to play with yourself, get hard again.”

 

Yeah, Stiles can do that. He goes nice and slow to match Josh’s pace, still sensitive.

 

“Talk,” Josh commands, and while Stiles tires to figure out a way to explain that he can’t talk now Beth starts.

 

“Alright, Stiles,” she says. “Josh is going to go all the way in and hold it so I can capture a few angles. You can do that, right?”

 

Stiles gives her a thumbs up. He wraps one hand around his dick and draws his knees up, playing with his hole so Derek can see this later because he’s not stupid. Beth wants to see how long he can deepthroat before crying uncle. The answer is _a while_ because Stiles meditates with candles, he’s totally comfortable holding his breath for at least a minute.

 

“Oh, that’s going to make someone very happy,” Beth says. “Put your finger in.” She’s not taking photos of Stiles’ ass directly so much as the angle of his arm and wrist. The photo being cut off so that the viewer can see _what_ he’s doing but not see him _doing it_ is part of her whole schtick. That doesn’t stop her from zooming in lovingly so the audience can see Stiles’ throat stuffed full, lips puffy and red around Josh’s dusky skin. 

 

Josh pulls out, and Stiles takes a breath.

 

“Mm. Gonna come,” Josh tells Beth. It shouldn’t be that hot that he’s telling Beth, not Stiles with whom he’s actually having sex. Like Beth ranks higher. Like Stiles doesn’t need the courtesy of a warning.

 

“Turn over, pretty,” he says to Stiles. “Let me come on that tattoo.”

 

Stiles freezes. Then he pushes Josh and gets off the bed. He’s willing to do a lot of things here, but that’s not on the table, that will never be on the table. He’s shaking with anger and it takes him a second to hear Beth.

 

“Stiles!” she says, normal talking voice, no siren call in it. “Hey, stop. Look, the tattoo’s not an option, we get it. You should have put that on your form.”

 

There’d been a lot of things on that form, things Stiles had never even considered like _Allow parter(s) to touch your eyes_ and _Allow impregnation (if applicable)_. Under _Areas you will not allow partner(s) to orgasm against/into (as applicable)_ he hadn’t considered his tattoo any more than he’d considered his nostrils. It seemed obvious. But right, they weren’t sparks, witches, mages, or any other form of magic users, just magic creatures. They wouldn’t be able to sense exactly what the tattoo was.

 

Stiles drops his briefs on the floor and considers them. Josh looks kind of alarmed, like he’d be sorry if he knew what he did wrong. Beth seems exasperated. Neither of them knew.

 

“Okay,” Stiles says. Swallows. “He can jerk himself off on my belly. But I think we all know this went further than I planned,” what the fuck with them talking about his alpha, Josh’s knowing smirk over Derek, “so I want to be paid extra, and when he’s done,” he motions at Josh’s dick, which is still hard, “we’re done. Hasta la vista. I’ve got papers to write.”

 

“Yes, yes,” Beth says. “This session’s going long. I need to be at a wedding by two.”

 

Stiles gets back on the bed. It’s uncomfortable, the sexiness spell broken, but Josh is still hot and Stiles doesn’t mind stroking him, licking at the head while Beth zeroes in on Josh’s face, the way he’s breathing out through his nose, all flared nostrils, taking in the scent of Stiles to get off. She asks him to get a drop on Stiles’ mouth and that’s how they end the session, with Stiles covered in come, looking debauched, one glistening drop of semen clinging to his lip while Josh pants on the pillows beside him, one hand possessively gripping Stiles’ shoulder.

 

Beth fills out their checks.

 

 

 

 

Stiles stops at a minimart and ducks into their bathroom to wipe himself down with hand sanitizer and a wet wipe (because he keeps these kind of things in the Jeep now, along with rock salt, wolfsbane, mountain ash, and a well-stocked first aid kit). Then he drives straight to Adam the tattooist to get the next part done. 

 

He’s late, but Adam has sold enough of himself to magic that he doesn’t seem to really live on a mortal schedule that includes things like watches or lunch breaks -- kinda like Doctor Strange. Or a pothead. His shop is dismal, and smells like cardamom, Windex, and lemon Gatorade. Adam usually looks like he’s not quite through a hangover, and his long hair is always tangled.

 

Stiles patiently reintroduces Adam to the drawing in Mrs. Delenda’s journal, listens again to Adam exclaim over how powerful this tattoo will be, wonders for a second time why the hell Adam keeps staring at his belly button when he takes his shirt off (like, it’s a pretty normal belly button. It’s not even an outie, there’s literally nothing there to stare at. What’s the fuss?), and then relaxes against the table.

 

Once Adam takes his ink out he’s all professional. He swabs down everything before and after a session, washes his hands like a surgeon, hair bound back. Lights flicker on to illuminate Stiles’ back, but the rest of the room is still hushed in shadow. 

 

Adam mutters to himself and the magic Stiles can feel around him grows thick like incense. To his eyes Adam still looks stringy and hungover, but Stiles’ lizard brain is concerned about the suddenly Very Powerful Thing in the room with him. Stiles waits for his lizard brain to calm the fuck down. It’s not like he’s not used to Very Powerful Things at his back. 

 

Adam works on shading the tattoo, occasionally mumbling to himself about what he’s working on. The needle is annoying. Sometimes it’s almost soothing; sometimes, like on the wings of his shoulder blades, it’s painful. Stiles breathes steadily and meditates. Stability sinks into his bones in slow, cresting waves of calm that measure themselves to his breathing.

 

Adam twitches away after a while. “Break?” he asks, eyes going vague again.

 

Stiles checks his phone for the time and then shakes his head even though it’s getting late.

 

“Okay, I’ll start with the earth,” Adam says, and pulls out shades of brown.

 

Stiles slumps forward again and lets the deep earth colors wash out everything else.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you spot any messed up text please let me know. I'm on a loaner laptop and my google docs connection keeps dropping. I'd like to stress that [dome_epais](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dome_epais/pseuds/dome_epais)' grammar is impeccable, and she's a wonderful beta.
> 
> See end notes re: dub con. Practice self-protection!

Stiles pushes the whole thing out of his head for weeks. On Labor Day he meets up with Scott in Fresno where Scott is getting his veterinary degree, and they spend the day on Millerton Lake drinking and pretending they know how to fish. They add wolfsbane to Scott’s beer. 

 

“You got inked!” Scott says when Stiles takes off his shirt. “Whoa, lemme see.” He stands in the boat, swaying them dangerously, and stumbles over to examine. 

 

Stiles grins at him. “Isn’t it badass? Hey, spread this on for me?” He hands Scott a bottle of spf 50 proof sunblock. “Sunburn is the number one killer of wicked tattoos. Well, and age. And I guess scarring. But sun damage is up there. I was given a scary pamphlet about it.”

 

It looked like it came from the burn ward of the local hospital. Stiles can never unsee that thing. 

 

Scott laughs at him. “Gimme the bottle.” 

 

Stiles is quiet as Scott coats his tattoo. It feels right to have his packmate, his best friend, his brother from another mother touching his tattoo. Not like Josh. 

 

“Have you delivered any puppies yet?” he asks Scott because he doesn’t want to think about Josh and how good the sex was, how it was perfect. Almost. 

 

Scott’s face lights up. “Not yet, but my landlady’s labrador is pregnant and she said I could monitor the delivery!” 

 

“Yeah? That’s good, man. Lots of practice for when it’s Allison someday.” 

 

He totally deserves being pushed into the lake. 

 

 

 

 

The money mostly pays for the journal, though Stiles needs a lot more for his tattoo and the drive to Fresno was brutal on his gas tank. So when Beth calls again two days later to ask for a follow up session next month, Stiles agrees.

 

The next shoot is with a pretty girl with masses of light brown hair. Stiles thinks she might be Beth’s cousin. Or her girlfriend. (Or both. Sirens are a little incestuous since there aren’t many of them left. Stiles doesn’t judge.)

 

She hums happily as she undresses him, voice a brush of hot silk up Stiles’ cock. 

 

He gets hard stupidly fast. 

 

She moans in his ear as she guides his hand to her really perky tit. Like, that is the perkiest chest Stiles has ever seen, and like most teenage boys he’s watched a lot of porn. Her skin is slightly iridescent on her legs and belly. It’s pretty.

 

He thumbs her nipples, bends down to suck at one. It feels good in his mouth. The girl -- Chloe -- lets loose these mind-blowing sounds, gasping Stiles’ name. 

 

And then Beth starts narrating. “She wants you to slide your hand down to her cunt, Stiles. See? She’s wet, isn’t she?” 

 

Beth’s assistant is doing most of the shooting this time, and Beth is wearing this little jumper that, well sure it’s hot, Indian summer dragginng through the end of September, but one little zip and it’d be on the floor. Stiles wonders if she and Chloe are planning a little naked time together when he leaves.

 

Stiles will savor that mental image. Alone. Later. 

 

Chloe glances at Beth, sloe-eyed and happy. “C’mon. I want your fingers,” she tells Stiles in a voice that would make a gay man hard. 

 

No, it actually would. Stiles has seen it happen, and he’d gagged over the artificial, magic fueled attraction overruling someone’s nature. 

 

This shoot is all handjobs. Beth says Stiles has gorgeous hands. She kneels down with a camera until she’s right in front of them, right where Stiles’ hand is stoking up and down the seam of Chloe’s cunt, her legs not wide enough to pull her lips open, but wet enough to slick Stiles’ fingers.

 

“Open up her lips,” Beth says. “Open her up, show her to me. I -- the camera wants to see.”

 

Bad save, Stiles thinks as he follows her instructions. Chloe squirms in his arms, panting.

 

“Stroke her clit,” Beth breathes. “Nice and light, first. Circle it, make her buck for you.”

 

Stiles does, adding speed as Chloe gasps, “Yes! Little faster. Wait, more-” she reaches down, repositions his fingers. “ _There_.” 

 

All of it is in her heavy siren-y voice, like maybe it just comes out that way when she’s fucking. 

 

Stiles’ dick hurts, it’s so hard. It’s throbbing. 

 

“Want my fingers inside?” he asks, and there’s a heavy moan but it didn’t come from Chloe. When he glances up Beth is dark-eyed with lust. Caught you, he thinks, and gives her girl a finger to clench around, other hand still playing lightly with her clit.

 

Beth has the grace to admit defeat. She gets to her feet. “Hold on a minute.”

 

Stiles stops playing with Chloe’s clit but doesn’t withdraw his finger.

 

“Are you sure you won’t make this a live shoot? I’ll double your pay.”

 

Stiles glances at Chloe, but she smiles at him. “I don’t mind.”

 

Chloe is pretty, but he definitely doesn’t want to do it on film. Besides, the part where she’s in love with someone else is a boner-killer. It’s fine with Beth there, but if it were just him and Chloe, Beth silent behind a video camera... nope. He licks his lips to refuse.

 

“Let Beth join us, too,” Chloe says. Her cunt clamps down on his finger, hips rocking a little. She’s maybe a minute away from orgasm, wants it bad.

 

“If you want, baby,” Beth says. 

 

“What? No, ugh.” On the list of people he _never wants to have sex with, ever,_ Beth is pretty high up there, like maybe right under Mr. Harris, but just barely above Jackson. 

 

“I won’t touch _you_ ,” Beth says, disgusted.

 

Oh thank Christ. Stiles feels less like puking now.

 

“I’ll sit at the end of the bed and direct things. Hands off, promise,” Beth says.

 

“But you’ll still kiss me?” Chloe asks.

 

Beth’s face softens. “Of course.” 

 

And yeah, okay, Stiles only mostly hates her. On principal. “Fine, I’ll do it, but no changing plays.”

 

Chloe’s forehead crinkles as if the idea never occurred to her, but Beth always pushes it.

 

“Let me make one proposal,” she says, one dainty finger held up, nail painted blue. “Get her off with your hands or your mouth. She doesn’t touch you, I don’t touch you -- obviously -- and then you leave the scene and Chloe and I finish it. I’ll keep your pay double, and you can keep saving yourself for your werewolf, okay?”

 

Stiles can feel his face flush. “I’m not-” he sputters.

 

“I really don’t care,” Beth says. “Are we going to go with the new plan or aren’t we?”

 

“I want to take a second and let you know that I despise your existence,” Stiles says.

 

“But you’re agreeing,” Beth smirks. 

 

He sticks out his tongue. He’s mature like that. 

 

Beth and her assistant, Ariana, have to change cameras, fuss with lighting, and set up those microphones on long metal arms that moviemakers use. Beth keeps saying “One more minute!” so Stiles and Chloe sit there on the bed with his finger up inside her. 

 

It’s awkward.

 

Eventually Beth shimmies out of her jumper and panties . She has a little patch of scales where most girls would have pubes, glimmering blue-green. There are more scales arrowing down between her ass dimples, which Stiles sees when she turns to give more instructions to Ariana. 

 

Ariana waits until she’s turned back before rolling her eyes. Apparently has no problems filming her boss having sex. Is this a regular thing? Do you have to be willing to fill in on slow weeks to work here? Ariana has large boobs and golden skin, so probably not a siren. Sirens all have swimmers physiques and fish-pale skin. Although she could be half siren or something. Does it work that way? She looks like a normal human. 

 

Chloe shifts uncomfortably on his finger, her cunt still wet even though the mood had died a pathetic death. It feels cool, in a gross slimy way. His finger is probably pruning.

 

“Ready?” Beth asks. 

 

Chloe nods, but Stiles is only half hard now. He looks down at his lap. 

 

Beth raises an eyebrow in understanding. “Alright,” she says, voice heavy again. “Here’s our scenario. My girlfriend needs to be fucked, so we picked you. You have no idea what it’s like, to need a man like that.” She cocks her head. “Or maybe you do, huh, Stiles?”

 

He glares at her, but doesn’t say anything. Her voice is starting to get him there.

 

“I’m here for moral support, because I love her. You’re here to fuck her.”

 

“Not actually,” Chloe says. “That’s what dildos are for. But,” she goes all sexy, “your fingers. You’ll fuck me until I’m screaming, okay, Stiles?” She clamps down around him tight, like she needs it.

 

Stiles isn’t sure what part of this is supposed to be pretend, other than leaving out the part where he’s only here to get paid.

 

Chloe lolls her head so that her pretty pink lips are at his ear. “You’re gonna be so good to me,” she murmurs. “Leave me wrecked.”

 

He’s plenty hard now.

 

“Lemme,” he says. “Um. Messenger bag. I need-” 

 

Ariana hands it to him, probably thinking he needs his cellphone. Instead he reaches for the Coconutty Lip Buddy he bought at a farmer’s market. He coats it on until his lips feel waxy.

 

Beth’s has this ‘I am so very patient with you, you don’t even know’ look on her face. “Ready now?” she asks. 

 

“Annnd rolling!” Ariana calls.

 

Chloe grinds down, rolling her hips like a dancer. 

 

He wants to thrust against her ass where it’s rubbing his dick against her sweet little ass. 

 

Stiles closes his eyes, pulls away from everything, concentrates. Dimly, he notices Beth speaking in the background, but he lets that skate right through him. 

 

Stiles pulls his finger out and rubs it across his lips. Then he uses the anchor of the tattoo for the first time. It’s not fully finished, but with the almond oil and the coconut milk from his lip balm he can coax out just a drop of magic. 

 

This is important. The first time he uses his tattoo for magic will set the tone for everytime he uses it from now on. He likes that its first use will be both protective and healing magic. 

 

When Stiles opens his eyes the slick on his finger glows soft blue. He slips it into Chloe, two fingers now, and lets her ride his hand, clit hitting the meat at the base of his thumb.

 

“ _What_....?” she asks. She doesn’t stop humping his hand.

 

“Your girlfriend’s right,” Stiles says, not using names, aware of the camera even though Beth will edit this part out. Probably. Maybe. 

 

“You need to be fucked,” he says against the round shell of her ear, “but you don’t want to be. This should tell your body you have been, kind of like birth control. You should be good for another year, maybe two.” 

 

Almond, for self-protection and virginity, coconut milk for motherhood and, again, virginity. Or at least non-penis involving sex. Sirens are all female. When their biological clock starts ticking they need to find human males to mate with, using their voices to tempt, or even force. 

 

It’s how they met Beth. 

 

Beth’s eyes lock to his, Chloe between them thrusting her hips, rubbing Stiles’ dick between those soft cheeks. 

 

Beth nods once, grateful but unbending. 

 

“Fuck!” Chloe gasps. “Fuck. I need... I.” She’s incoherent, trying to get pressure on her clit and her g-spot both.

 

“She needs your mouth,” Beth says. She crawls forward to pinch both Chloe’s nipples, hard and cruel. 

 

Chloe’s back bows up, lifting her off Stiles’ finger. He uses the time to crawl out from behind her, trying to be graceful as he knees across the bed because Beth is weird about editing things out, wants everything _organic_ and _natural_ and whatever other shit she can get away with only because she really is a good photographer. Pornographer. Whatever.

 

Beth leads Chloe up until she’s against the pillows, sliding behind her so that Chloe’s head is pillowed against her tits. Her hands shove Chloe’s legs wide open. 

 

Stiles takes a moment to breathe because that’s fucking hot, Chloe splayed like that, cunt gleaming wet, nipples tight, mouth open and slick from Beth’s kisses.

 

He really sees the appeal of last time, is what he’s saying. Did he look that needy?

 

He settles down on his elbows in front of her and pauses while Arianna and her camera to catch up. He pets Chloe’s clit teasingly while he waits.

 

“Want his tongue on you?” Beth asks, loud enough for the camera to catch. 

 

Do sirens’ voices even work on each other?

 

“Please,” Chloe says, blue eyes begging Stiles.

 

So Stiles bends his head and... yeah, he’s going on instinct. He’s sort of done this, a little, but only as foreplay. And he was mostly drunk at the time. So was she, for that matter. Prom was awesome. 

 

He starts by licking a long line up, from her hole to her belly. 

 

That gets him a gasp. 

 

He does it again, then places his lips over her clit and sort of kisses it. French kisses it, everything wet, with long slides of his tongue. He slips two fingers inside her and this is like patting his head and rubbing his belly because he’s trying not to make his tongue and finger match rhythms. Then he gives up and does it at the same time so she’s getting a tongue across her clit and fingers frigged in hard at the same time.

 

Chloe thrashes. When Stiles glances up Beth is pinching her nipples again, which she seems to like. It looks painful, but whatever floats her boat. Sinks her sailor? Or is that speciesist?

 

Beth starts talking again, tender dirty things like “He’s lashing you so good, sweetheart. Gonna clench for him? He has nice fingers, huh? Saw you looking at them. Shh. I got you. Want me to pull your nipples? I know you’re close, baby.”

 

Stiles turns back to what he’s doing, introducing a third finger because Chloe seems to need it even though she’s really, really tight. She tastes incredible. Stiles is smearing the almond-y chapstick all over her cunt, but that will be good for the spell. 

 

When her hands come up to grab his head and hold it against her Stiles lets her, dick rubbing against the bed because he’s so turned on from all this, from Chloe’s twitching gasps and Beth’s infuriatingly calm voice that keeps going, never running out of something filthy to say.

 

Chloe’s hips push up, up, up, and then she’s crying -- not screaming, but actually crying, big heaving sobs as she comes and comes like she hasn’t touched herself in a year, her cunt wringing Stiles’ fingers in waves.

 

She collapsed against the pillows, but Beth knees her legs open with her own and buries her fingers in her girlfriend, plunging them much harder than Stiles had, and Chloe arches up again, tears streaming down her face, mouth open in ecstasy. 

 

She’s beautiful when she comes. She’s like that statue, the one that made Don Juan blush. 

 

Stiles backs off to the end of the bed, out of the way of the camera. He watches and strokes himself as Beth and Chloe go for a third orgasm from her, and then Chloe regains a little energy and flips them over, curling her fingers into Beth cunt, looking mischievous, but Stiles has come by then so he quietly gets dressed and leaves them alone.

 

Ariana comes over while he’s retying his shoes a third time, wishing there was a bathroom in the one room studio. She fishes the company checkbook out of the photography equipment and writes up a check with an extra zero.

 

Stiles frowns at it. “But that’s not what-”

 

“The extra’s a thank you for the spell. Beth said to do it,” Ariana says. “They’re really grateful.” She smiles like he’s amazing.

 

 

 

 

And that would have been it, more than enough money to cover Stiles’ tattoo, enough for some non-cafeteria food, and even a little spending cash left over for treating his study group to donuts.

 

Except then his Jeep dies.

 

Stiles tilts his head as he considers his two complementary issues of _Come Hither_ magazine critically. 

 

The last photo is pretty, Chloe arching against his hand as he plays with her nipples, one hand touching her slit, her legs mostly closed and her toes curled. 

 

She makes him look good. 

 

There are only a handful of photos from that session in the beginning of the magazine. It’s an advanced copy that will come out next week, with a weblink and discount passcode for the video which only paying members can access. Stiles doesn’t think he’ll look it up. It was mostly Beth and Chloe anyway. He wasn’t there for most of it, and that’s how he’d like to keep his pornography career: brief. 

 

The photos feel different, somehow. Sure, he’s still fucking people. It’s not like other types of erotica he’s seen where the models are posed _as if_ they were having sex though they’re clearly not _actually_ having it. But add some artistic angles and play around with the... effects? Whatever it is that photography people do to make photos look gorgeous and sensual rather than stark and awkward. That changes the whole story. 

 

In the photos Stiles is an object for the photographer, but he thinks if he watched the videos he’d see a real person having sex with strangers.

 

It’s too intimate.

 

Then again, the photos with Josh? Yeah, those are hella intimate. He looks wrecked, staring at the camera with no shame, everything there for anyone to see. He can’t look without blushing. 

 

Weirdly enough, the parts where Josh is face-fucking him -- God, what was he thinking? He should never agree to anything until at least ten minutes after he’s come. It’s a new rule -- those photos are less intimate, more plain old dirty, even if they’re artsty-dirty. 

 

Stiles sets the magazine down and buries his head in his arms. This is so stupid. What is he hoping for, that Derek will realize Stiles is having sex with other people and fly to his side to claim Stiles for himself? Derek doesn’t even read _Come Hither_ magazine. The whole pack was kind of put off anything Beth ever touched when they caught her about to have sex with Danny, Danny looking confused and unhappy while he lowered his zipper slowly. 

 

Stiles hits his head against his arms a few times. Then he gives in and dials. 

 

“ _Thalassa Photography_ ,” Ariana picks up on the second ring. She sounds distracted.

 

“It’s Stiles.”

 

“Stiles! If you’ve called about another shoot, I’m sure Beth will say yes.”

 

“Oh, because of the, um, the thing I did? Because I think that would feel like a pity fuck, even if we weren’t, you know-” Stiles’ mouth is doing that thing where it just keeps going even though it was clearly time to abort sentence a dozen words ago. “Not that we didn’t, I mean, we didn’t, obviously. Oh, fuck me.”

 

Ariana is laughing. “Stiles, you’re one of our best subjects. Sales have gone up, and we have lots of requests for more of you.”

 

“Seriously?” Stiles stares at the Batman poster above his bed. It’s tacked up slightly crooked.

 

“Oh yeah. Beth’s been making noises about getting you back for another shoot. Just photographs, this time. Are you willing to work with Josh again?”

 

Stiles looks down at a photo of Josh shaking him by the neck. Beth captured this look of acceptance and trust that Stiles doesn’t remember feeling at the time. Like, maybe his face was in the middle of forming an ‘I’ll tolerate this because I know better than to piss off a strange werewolf, but you better not get any funny ideas’ expression, and the camera interrupted it so that he looks trusting.

 

He sighs.

 

“I guess. No touching my tattoo, and she’s not talking me into another video. Not with Josh.”

 

“Noooo problem!” Ariana says, sounding as if she’s penning him in. No taksie backsies.

 

“Well okay then,” Stiles says, expecting that to be all, but then he hears Beth in the background telling Ariana to give her the phone.

 

“Stiles?” she asks. “Listen, I know you weren’t comfortable with anal penetration last time, but now that you know Josh a little can I get you to commit to that?”

 

Stiles wonders if she’s fully aware that she’s using her heavy, molasses voice. Not that it works on him. Well, it works on his dick. 

 

“Look,” he says. “I don’t need the money that badly, so how about you cut to the chase. What are you pushing me to do this time?” It’s a little mean implying she’s influencing him more than she should, using her powers against him. Stiles is a spark and he has a natural resistance to supernatural suggestions. He’s capable of saying no.

 

“I can do that,” Beth says, as if she’s granting him a big favor. 

 

What happened to gratitude, Stiles would like to know. 

 

“Our readers want to see you being fucked. You’ve seen the September issue, Stiles. You know how you looked. It doesn’t have to be with Josh, of course.”

 

Stiles thinks for a moment. He has to hurry this phone call. Mikhail will be back from class in a few minutes. 

 

“I’d be willing to do a solo shoot, full penetration with toys. I can even use, you know, specialist toys.” Werewolf dildos with knots, toys slathered in incubus venom that makes the person playing with it insatiable, whatever else. What would a vampire dildo be like? Cold? Like, maybe it’s a temperature play thing.

 

“No can do,” Beth says. “We’re supernatural erotica, Stils. We need someone, you know, _supernatural_ to be part of it.”

 

“I’m a spark!” Stiles protests. Okay, so he wasn’t born supernatural. He’s still part of the supernatural community.

 

“Yeah? Can you do something magic-y while you jerk off?” She sounds skeptical. Stiles tries to think of something cooler than ‘I can make my tattoo glow’. 

 

“...No,” he admits.

 

“So, Josh then?”

 

“He could use a dildo on me?” Stiles tries.

 

“That might be a good idea, actually,” Beth says. “But only as a step on the way to fucking you. It’s fucking or nothing, Stiles, sorry.”

 

There’s a moment of silence.

 

“I could maybe do an interview with you,” Beth offers quietly. “It doesn’t pay much. And they’re really intimate. Basically it’s a bunch of questions about your personal kinks. But that’s an option.”

 

Stiles thinks desperately, keeping an ear out for Mikhail who will pound up the main steps any second now.

 

He thinks about not seeing his dad for Thanksgiving next week, not seeing the pack. Not being there for Erica’s baby shower, seeing the look on her face when he gives her the tiny Catwoman and Batgirl onesies he got on Etsy. He doesn’t need this money, not to keep eating or something, but he wants it, needs it for his tattoo. 

 

“If he’s knotting me he’s using a condom, and I want an extra two hundred.”

 

“Done!” Beth says. “Here’s Ariana again. I’ll let her schedule you.”

 

Stiles tells himself he’s not allowed to regret his decision until after the baby shower.

 

 

 

 

Before he drives down to Beacon Hills for fall break, Stiles stops by Adam’s tattoo parlor. Adam’s done with the ash tree, green and grays filled in. Stiles leans forward and soaks in the magic as Adam works on the flowers along Stiles’ right shoulder, leaving the fox and the stars for last. 

 

The flowers represent birth months: his own, his mom’s, and his dad’s. They also represent sorrow and sympathy which are hard lessons his mom taught him, patience and protection which is what his dad has always given him, and childhood innocence and loyal love which represent his childhood, and are also what Scott gives him. 

 

Right before a holy day about thankfulness and family is a good time to have this part done. Stiles thinks of Thanksgiving at Scott’s house, with cornbread and a huge turkey and the canned cranberry sauce Stiles loves, his family around him, safe. He lets the ink take hold. 

 

He doesn’t look in the mirror when Adam’s done. He’s waiting to see the whole thing.

 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving isn’t huge. It’s just Scott, Mrs. McCall, Scott’s grandma Mrs. Vega, Stiles’ dad, and Stiles. They eat until even Scott is full,, and then they loosen their belts for dessert. Mrs. McCall packs up leftovers while Mrs. Vega makes Mexican hot chocolate and asks Scott and Stiles about college. Mrs. Verga asks Stiles about his now-ex-girlfriend from freshman year, and Stiles has to tell her kindly old wrinkly face about how yeah, he really liked her but no, they’re not together anymore, and yeah, it was her decision, in that decision here translates to ‘You do know we’re not serious, right?’ 

 

“If she didn’t appreciate your affection then she wasn’t worth your time,” Mrs. Vega tells him seriously. She looks offended on his behalf, and Stiles has no idea how to deal with that so he blurts, “Scott and Allison had a pregnancy scare!” and isn’t sorry. Really. 

 

“I’m sorry! I panicked!” he mouths at Scott as Scott explains that no, Allison isn’t pregnant. Yes, they’re sure. 

 

Mrs. Vega leaves it at that because she’s where Scott gets his sweetness. 

 

They finish with their traditional game of penny poker. Mrs. McCall wins. 

 

Scott hugs him tight when they’re leaving. “You okay?” he asks. 

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, not surprised because Scott knows him well. 

 

Scott looks him in the eye for a minute before nodding. “If there’s anything, I’m here for you, man.” 

 

Stiles punches his shoulder. “Yeah, Scott. I know you are.” 

 

 

 

 

“You look beautiful,” Stiles tells Erica because that’s what you’re supposed to say to pregnant women so they don’t kill you, but it’s true, too. She looks happy. She’s still wearing her red lipstick, but her makeup is less aggressive, like she has nothing to prove. It makes the whole hot air balloon belly look hardcore, like an extreme lifestyle or something. 

 

“You look distracted,” Erica replies. She grins at him.

 

Stiles has a freak out moment of _Oh fuck she knows she knows_ because if Erica knows... he swings around to look for Derek, who must catch the movement out of the corner of his eye because his head shoots up. He cocks an eyebrow at Stiles. It’s not an ‘I’ve seen you naked’ eyebrow, it’s an ‘Is something up?’ eyebrow. 

 

The relief makes his knees a little weak. When Stiles turns around Erica is smirking at him. 

 

“You’ve seriously got to get that shit together soon,” Erica says. “Stiles, we all want you to be happy.”

 

While Stiles is trying to figure out how to respond -- seriously, what do you say to something like that other than ‘Mind your own business’ which would get him killed because being pack means never having any privacy or something and Erica has violence issues -- one of her sisters-in-law interrupts them to talk about something baby related. Stiles beats a hasty retreat to the snack table to stuff his face with deviled eggs and tiny hot dogs. He can’t answer questions if his mouth is full of tiny hot dogs. 

 

The baby shower is kinda tense because Erica and Boyd still haven’t had a certain discussion involving words like _were_ and _wolf_ with their families. Mrs. Boyd and Mrs. Reyes keep talking about baby monitors which, not really useful when you have werewolf hearing, and odor trapping diaper trash cans, which won’t work against werewolf noses. They don’t take Erica and Boyd’s ‘thanks but no thanks’ seriously. 

 

Boyd’s little sisters seem a little awed by Erica’s belly, which is redefining Stiles’ definitions of _huge_.

 

“Hey,” Stiles asks Boyd when the girls start talking about nipple shields and nursing bras and _discharge_ (oh god, why?) and the guys kind of huddle together on the opposite side of the room. “You’re sure there’s only one heartbeat in there?” 

 

Boyd laughs at him. 

 

Erica loves the onesies, even though they look cheap next to the adorable itty bitty dresses and outfits both Lydia and Allison bought. Scott and Isaac had banded together and, with advice from Mrs. McCall, got a bunch of baby blankets, pacifiers, and bibs. Jackson and Danny both give gift cards.

 

Derek’s gift is a cherrywood changing table, rocking chair, and crib. Erica cries a little. 

 

Stiles hasn’t been avoiding Derek, not exactly. It’s just that he can feel his face turning red whenever he looks at Derek and hears Josh whispering “ _Show Derek how much you want him to fuck you_.”

 

He may have missed a few phone calls because of those words. So really, he should probably have expected Derek to corner him in the kitchen while everyone else is eating cake and laughing, not listening. 

 

“Dude. Personal space,” Stiles reminds Derek. He’s not reading into how close Derek’s body is to his, close enough that Stiles can feel the heat of him. 

 

“Let me see it,” Derek says. 

 

Stiles blinks for a second. “Wait, my tattoo?” It peaks over the neck of his shirt. Did Scott tell him, or did he notice it himself?

 

Nod. 

 

“Okay. Sure.” Stiles turns around, still bracketed against the counter by Derek’s arms. At least Derek’s over the shoving-him-against-things phase of their relationship. Friendship. Antagonist-ship? Well, no they’re definitely friends now, but not buddies. They don’t hang out. 

 

Possibly that has more to do with Stiles’ unfortunately-timed boners than Derek’s weird shyness/standoffishness deal. Derek seems to like being around him. He smiles sometimes.

 

Stiles reaches back with one hand to tug his shirt over his head, leaving his arms in the sleeves because he’s not stripping for Derek. He’s blushing, can feel the heat on his cheeks sweep over his ears and neck. 

 

Derek is quiet while he studies the tattoo. He thumbs Stiles’ shirt out of the way to get a look at the fox’s brush where it trails over his shoulder. He rubs at some still-tacky lotion on Stiles shoulder from where he twisted into weird yoga positions to take care of his new flowers. He doesn’t touch the ink.

 

“For your mom?” he asks. 

 

Stiles swallows. “Yeah. My family, yeah.” 

 

Derek brushes away a little more lotion, carefully avoiding the tattoo. 

 

Stiles suddenly wants him to touch his tattoo. He locks his knees and gnaws on his lip, resists saying “Please” in the sort of voice that would give away everything. 

 

“Is this for the pack?” Derek asks softly. He treasures things the members of his pack do for the pack as a whole -- Boyd teaching Isaac how to defend himself, Lydia introducing Erica to her friends, Stiles learning protective magic. 

 

When they finished renovating the old Hale house for Isaac and Derek to live in Scott went out and bought two rose bushes to plant at the end of the walk, “So it’ll feel like home.” When Stiles came by a week later Derek had six library books in the living room about rose gardening. The roses those bushes produce could probably win state fairs. Stiles makes sure to give them a little boost every once in awhile. 

 

“It’s for me first,” Stiles answers truthfully. “But from here I can add other things. It’s like, I don’t know.” He thinks about it for a second, chewing his lip. He’s relaxed with Derek this close, but it’s hard to concentrate. “A foundation,” he decides. “Roots.” 

 

“An anchor,” Derek mumurs, hand hovering over the fox. 

 

Stiles can feel the heat of it. Werewolves run hot, a few degrees above humans, like a mild fever. He doesn’t press up into it, but the afternoon is chilly and his nipples are tight with a draft seeping in through the bay windows, frost on the ground outside. 

 

Derek’s breath stirs against the skin of his neck. He wishes Derek would press closer, a line of heat against his back. press kisses to the tattoo and shove his hand down Stiles’ jeans. But Derek knows Stiles wants him. It’s not something Stiles can hide, the stink of lust, the way his eyes follow Derek around any room they’re both in. How far he’ll go to see Derek to smile. 

 

The ball’s in Derek’s court. 

 

Derek presses one palm to the center of Stiles’ back, at the very edge of his tattoo. 

 

“Will you fill up your back?” 

 

“Yeah. And my arms. Maybe my legs too.” Stiles will cover his entire body if it will help him keep his loved ones safe, give him a way to fight. 

 

Derek steps away. 

 

“It’s really pink around the new stuff.” 

 

It’s so blatantly a way to break the tension that Stiles wants to punch him. But he goes with it, tugs his shirt on again and turns to lean against the counter. “Only got it four days ago.” 

 

“Shouldn’t it look better by now?” Derek’s not meeting his eyes. 

 

“Normal for a human,” Stiles sing-songs because this is something he and Lydia say a _lot_. They joke about getting t-shirts. Okay, Stiles jokes. Lydia would never wear something so tacky. 

 

Derek’s wearing his unimpressed look, but it’s a game, it’s putting the needle back on their usual record track. 

 

“Erica’s really not having twins?” Stiles cracks. “Is her baby going to be a giant?”

 

“ _I heard that_!” Erica shouts from the other room. 

 

“I looked it up,” Derek mutters lowly as they rejoin the party. “The book says she’s supposed to be this size.” 

 

“You totally own _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_ , don’t you?”

 

Derek pours himself a glass of fizzy pink punch which he isn’t even going to drink, ignoring him.

 

“You do!” Stiles crows. “You bookmarked parts! You _highlighted_ sections, didn’t you?” 

 

“He quotes it,” Lydia smirks. Stiles nearly trips, he’s laughing so hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again there are some consent issues related to siren call, this time as a passing mention of a past memory. However nothing happens, the heroes arrive in time, and all is well. If you need further details or have questions concerning this, please leave me a comment. I want you to be ok, and I never want my fiction to hurt you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been horribly remiss in not giving credit to [Otter's ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/otter/pseuds/otter)[Incantation Ink](http://archiveofourown.org/series/32114) series as part of the inspiration for Stiles' tattoo. If you haven't read that series you should definitely check it out. Otter is amazing. 
> 
> I'm also aware that in some ways this mirrors the Necks n' Throats series that a few different authors have contributed to. I did read the first few drabbles on tumblr months ago, but I've been avoiding reading anything since as I don't want to accidentally incorporate anything.

Getting more work done on Stiles’ tattoo is a huge gulp of air before diving underwater, Adam’s weird smelling shop and his lank hair and his muttering all a way of grounding himself. 

 

Adam inks the stars turquoise, yellow, and vermilion. They’re planets. And they’re his pack. 

 

Stiles breathes in more and more power, feels the connections take hold, and remembers why he’s going to get his ass fucked, what the money’s really for. He needs this tattoo. The needle buzzes across his shoulder blade, stinging like hell as Adam inks little Mercury, and Stiles concentrates on Isaac, his sweet smile when he does something he knows is _good,_ , the abuse he survived, what an utter asshole he can be when he’s trying to prove he’s tough, how sometimes Stiles thinks Isaac is secretly in love with Scott. 

 

Then Erica as Venus. She’s easy to focus on, feminine and arrogant, funny and sometimes unexpectedly sweet. Fierce as hell, stubborn, loyal. Stiles will have to figure out a tattoo for the baby eventually, but right now the baby can be represented by Venus as well. 

 

Earth is Scott and the warmth and life he brings to Stiles’ life, the way he was there after his mom’s death, the way he can be a little shit and his first year dating Allison was no picnic, but Scott has one of the best hearts Stiles has ever met. There’s a reason his joining Derek’s pack made everything start to be okay after two long years of panic and fear. Scott is the heart and soul of the pack. 

 

Mars for Lydia, red, vicious, beautiful, and perfect. Mars was the Roman god of war, which Stiles thinks fits Lydia and her constant war for perfection, for recognition. It’s also Earth’s twin, capable of sustaining life under the right circumstances, so that suits Lydia too. 

 

“You need a break before this next one,” Adam states, not a question. Awesome. Even Stiles’ tattooist knows about his feelings for Derek. 

 

He stands and stretches, walks around the shop a few times. Adam is still focussed, gauging Stiles’ progress as Stiles finds his inner zen. He’s doing that belly-button staring thing _again_. 

 

“That will work,” Adam decides after a few minutes. He motions for Stiles to sit back down. 

 

Jupiter. Big, red, with an unending storm and a surface hidden under miles and miles of clouds. The planet whose gravity effects the rest, keeps them in balance. Yeah, that’s Derek. Stiles is so gone over him. 

 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Adam murmurs. 

 

“Wh-” 

 

“ _Concentrate_.” 

 

Yeah, okay. Stiles focusses on Derek, tries to think of him as a whole and not just how Stiles feels about him. Thinks about his place in the pack, his history, his determination to protect. 

 

After a while Adam switches to a large yellow star: Saturn. Obviously, that’s Boyd. Stiles breathes evenly and thinks about Boyd’s slow delight as he rested a hand on Erica’s belly, his steady place at Derek’s side, the way he’s all sensible and does his background reading. Great guy, Boyd. 

 

When Saturn is done Stiles has to take a minute to get his giggles out because Uranus is Jackson and Stiles not-so-inner four year old thinks that’s the best thing ever. Because Jackson is an _asshole_! Well, okay no, there’s more reasons Stiles picked Uranus for Jackson. Uranus rotates separately from all the other planets, on its side. It fits Jackson, who may be part of the pack but somehow still can’t manage to catch their rhythm. 

 

Also, he’s right next to Neptune, which is Danny, blue and calm. 

 

And lastly Allison as Pluto (fuck the International Astronomical Union, Pluto is so a planet). That choice was easy, with the way Allison both is and isn’t part of the pack, orbiting at the farthest reach. Also the way death seems to rule her life in a way it doesn’t even rule Derek’s, which fits Roman god of the underworld. 

 

Adam steps back, and the vagueness settles over his face. 

 

“Hey, thanks man,” Stiles says as Adam hands him a pamphlet about tattoo care. Again. 

 

“They’re going to be beautiful,” Adam says. 

 

Ooookay. 

 

 

 

 

So Josh is still scorching hot, Stiles thinks. It’s good to know that he hasn’t been in any, like, tragic, beauty-ruining accidents. Not that he wouldn’t heal anyway.

 

“We were thinking about the condom,” Beth says as Stiles pulls off his socks.

 

“It’s _non-negotiable_ ,” Stiles snaps.

 

“No, of course,” Beth waves her hand. “But it needs a story. How do you feel about enemas?”

 

“What?”

 

“We use an enema on you, make you look a little pregnant. Can you make something glow, look witchy?”

 

“Spark mage-y,” Stiles corrects, but she doesn’t notice.

 

“The story is he’s your mate, and you’ve used your magic to get pregnant. Then Josh fucks you with a condom -- less clean-up, you already smell like him since he’s knocked you up. You see?”

 

Oh yeah, that’s why he hates her. Beth doesn’t know when to stop pushing people past their limits so long as it’s in the name of her precious art.

 

“How’s he going to fuck me if I’m full of water?” Stiles asks, finally. Is there even a faucet in here?

 

“Carefully,” she answers. “We’ll stop to mop up any spills.”

 

“Well that sounds just peachy,” Stiles bitches. “What about me? Cramping and being fucked sounds like so much _fun_.” Is his sarcasm not thick enough? He can add another layer here.

 

Beth gives him a look of pure annoyance. “Well can you magic yourself a pregnant stomach, oh spark mage?”

 

He can’t, not without a day’s preparation and some very specific herbs. Illusions are a bitch to maintain on a moving figure. But he resents her tone, because, _okay_ , so he was still coming into his powers when they tangled over Danny. She has the wrong impression. Stiles is clever and has enough will to make Deaton stare at him whenever Stiles isn’t looking at him directly, and according to Scott sometimes Deaton smells scared.

 

So he growls that he’ll be back in two hours and goes to Adam’s. His fox piece is strong enough to start using and Stiles was going to get this tattoo anyway. Illusions are one of the most useful magics. He gets a stark black illusionary rune high on the back of his neck, near his mind, since illusions are a creation of the mind. It sort of looks like a J fucking a weird cane and has zero aesthetics. Whatever. 

 

The magic hurts as it binds, but Stiles really doesn’t care. Eventually this one will be strong enough to maintain an illusion over an entire house using only his blood. For now he can eek out about twenty minutes on his own body with a little bit of willow leaf he raids from someone’s front lawn , chews up, and smears onto his stomach with a few drops of blood. 

 

When he saunters back into Beth’s studio Josh stares at him.

 

Beth smiles.

 

“Okay,” she says. “Take the illusion off and we’ll start with Josh fucking you. Then oops! The condom broke. Then it’s five months later and he’s fucking his pregnant mate. That work for you, Stiles?”

 

“Yeah, Beth, that works for me,” Stiles says, as much venom as he can inject into his sentence.

 

He gets naked, rubbing the paste off his belly with a bit of water from Ariana’s water bottle. Josh is still staring at him, and he looks hungry, looks like he does want to see Stiles pregnant with his baby.

 

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that because there’s this basic, fundamental fact that he’s in love with Derek. Josh is potentially a nice guy. The sex is good. Stiles isn’t opposed to having a family someday -- preferably in a way that does not involve pregnancy on his own part because he’s still having flashbacks to Mrs. Boyd asking Erica about discharge and he just never wants to go there again. But like, the scent thing? The part where everyone who looked at him would know he’d been fucked stupid, and by who? The part where Josh is looking at him like Stiles could be his entire world? 

 

Yeah. Those are getting to him. 

 

Stiles avoids Josh’s gaze. 

 

While he was gone Beth and Ariana finished setting up the lighting, and Beth holds up her camera like ‘Get on with it, morons’. 

 

Josh starts by placing one hot palm on Stiles’ belly, right where the baby bump showed. Beth makes pleased noises, so presumably this looks good. Stiles loops an arm up over Josh’s shoulders and pulls him in for a nice sloppy kiss. They lick at each other until everything is spit slick and tingling. Stiles’ lips feel swollen.

 

“Step it up,” Beth orders. 

 

Josh grabs Stiles’ ass. First he squeezes it, playing, giving Stiles a little slap to make his hips twitch. Then he hauls Stiles in until his dick rubs Josh’s stomach, Josh’s dick resting alongside his. Stiles pulls away from the kiss, trying to get used to their new position. Josh’s dick twitches and, fuck, new sensation. Stiles gay sexual experience is a few make out bump-and-grind session in _Jungle_ and that weekend in San Francisco. He’s never had a boyfriend, hasn’t had a bunch of the little things you do with someone you’re dating. The way Josh pulls Stiles into humping against his belly? Totally new. Totally awesome.

 

“Maneuver to the bed,” Beth tells Josh. “You want to fuck him there, like he’s your mate.”

 

Josh growls against Stiles’ throat, and the camera flickers at an angle that probably catches Josh’s eyes all werewolf gold.

 

The second Stiles’ ass hits the bed Josh in on him, pushing him up to the middle with his hands on Stiles’ hip, not-quite-gnawing on Stiles’ collar bones. Stiles is going to have dark purple hickies tomorrow. He’s going to look owned.

 

Josh reaches under the pillows and grabs lube and condoms -- real classy, Beth -- before ducking down to mouth at Stiles’ belly. He looks like he wants Stiles to get pregnant, like maybe he’s been pricking pins through the condom and that ought to be disgusting but it’s making Stiles harder.

 

Josh rubs at his hole, gentle and teasing, before giving Stiles two fingers at once. Stiles’ whimpers. Fuck, it feels good. He hasn’t been fucked since last year, his spring break three night stand in San Francisco. Seventy-two hours of amazingness and whole new worlds or, heh, hole new worlds. His own fingers just haven’t been the same since.

 

“Look at you, going all loose for me,” Josh grins. “You want it bad, huh? Fuck, get a good shot of this.”

 

‘This’ is Stiles hole twitching and clenching around three of Josh’s fingers. Beth zooms right in and makes an appreciative noise as Josh pulls his fingers back and then slams them in hard. Stiles grunts and bites his lip. Josh does it again, and the sound the lube makes is obscene.

 

Josh pulls his fingers out to fumble with the condom. It takes him a moment, either because his fingers are slippery or because he hasn’t used a condom since he put one on a banana in health class. 

 

Stiles laughs a little. 

 

Yeah, mistake. Big mistake. 

 

Josh’s eyes get sharp and he bites Stiles’ thigh hard enough to hurt before lining up and, no waiting at all, popping the head of his dick right in.

 

Then he pauses.

 

Stiles waits one second. Three. Six. He tries wiggling. “Push it in already,” Stiles demands.

 

Josh obeys, sliding in slick and steady, muttering “Fuck, yeah. You’re so tight, pretty. Gonna carry my baby,” which seriously answers the question of him having a pregnancy kink. Maybe it’s an ownership thing. Stiles bets Derek--

 

No. This time’s not about Derek because that’s private and Josh doesn’t get to have that again.

 

Josh draws back slowly because he’s obsessed with making Stiles’ brain explode from the combination of inaction and want. He pushes in hard, like he was fucking Stiles with his fingers earlier and , _yes_.

 

It’s so perfect Stiles could cry.

 

He moans and grabs the sheets, then grabs Josh’s shoulders. His legs are wrapped around his waist, pulling Josh and his perfect fat dick in Stiles, exactly where perfect fat dicks belong. His pubes -- which he keeps short, nice of him -- brush against Stiles’ balls, a buzz-y sensation that Stiles doesn’t mind. 

 

Josh pulls his hands down from his shoulders, pins them over Stiles’ head and pulls out until just the head is held inside. He uses his other hand to hold Stiles’ chin.

 

“Who’s in charge here, pretty boy?”

 

Stiles glares at him. Beth is, if they want to get technical, but Stiles gets that Josh wants his submission, doesn’t appreciate Stiles’ using his legs or arms or any part of himself except his hole to pull Josh in, welcome the fucking. Stiles... can’t do passive to save his life, but he can tone it down. He looks away.

 

Josh smiles like he’s won something, holds off on fucking back in for a few seconds longer just to prove a point.

 

“You look so pretty like this,” Beth says from behind Josh, camera aimed at Stiles’ face as he accepts his place. “Our readers are going to be so jealous of Josh. They’ll want this from you, all for themselves.”

 

Her voice is like taking a hit. Stiles feels his body relax all over until he’s pliant and welcoming as Josh pushes back in relentlessly slow.

 

“Mmmm.” Josh buzzes a kiss against his throat, high enough that if he bit nothing could cover the mark. “But he doesn’t have you right now. I do. Right now you’re my mate and I’m going to fuck you until you catch, Stiles, right here,” hand on his belly again. “I’m the one who gets to watch you swell up until you’re waddling, walking like I’ve just fucked you hard.”

 

Stiles wishes Josh’s dirty talk wasn’t doing it for him, but oh, it is. It fucking is.

 

Josh grabs one of Stiles legs and stretches it up, over his shoulder. Then the other one, until Stiles is bent at seriously unnatural angles, feeling the burn all down the back of his legs. Josh doesn’t seem to mind that Stiles’s body doesn’t bend farther. He’s too busy looking down at where he’s sliding in and out of Stiles, using Stiles legs for leverage as he shoves in a little harder.

 

“I can’t-” Stiles says. “I can’t reach my dick like this.”

 

Beth laughs. Josh isn’t distracted from the way he’s fucking Stiles so very, very nicely, on and on and on until Stiles thinks he’ll go insane. He’s trembling and gasping, swearing at Josh between breaths. Finally Stiles just lies there, panting, feeling the pleasure rising but never getting where he needs it to be.

 

“Oh, there you are!” Josh sighs. “There’s my beautiful boy.” He nuzzles Stiles’ chest with his stubble, scraping a nipple and then worrying it with his teeth.

 

Stiles makes a sound he doesn’t even have a name for.

 

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll get you off,” Josh says. He shifts his hands down from Stiles’ knees and for one moment Stiles thinks he’s going to wrap a hand around his dick where it’s throbbing and dark red. But instead Josh’s hands grab Stiles ass and tilts him higher, a little higher- and he massages his dick right across Stiles’ prostate as he pushes in at that goddamn glacier speed. Stiles shouts.

 

“See?” Josh says, smug, and does it again. He keeps doing it and each time Stiles wants to murder him or possibly propose because nothing should feel like this, like Stiles is being pushed and pulled right up into his own body, like his body isn’t his own first, like maybe Josh owns it.

 

Stiles is screaming as he comes. He didn’t think that was an actual thing that actually happened outside of real, actual pornos which is not what they’re doing here. They’re doing _erotica_ for fucks’ sake. But his throat is raw and he can’t stop his whole body from twitching with aftershocks, hips still humping slowly back onto Josh’s dick which is... bigger. Yeah, bigger. Much bigger. This would be the knot, then.

 

Josh shudders and hitches forward as much as the knot allows as he comes and comes. It feels nice. Great, really. Maybe too much, pressing right on Stiles’ prostate where Josh hadn’t touched at all until he decided it was time for Stiles to come. His prostate is waving a little white flag, but his dick twitches. Josh rests his forehead against Stiles’ shoulder for a few seconds, and then starts shuddering again as another wave goes through him. Wow, is this going to keep happening for twenty minutes? Each time he shudders he’s pressing up against Stiles’ prostate, coming inside him again and if it weren’t for the condom Stiles bets he’d be dripping already, knot or no knot.

 

Stiles dick decides it doesn’t have the strength of will to go hard again, but that’s not stopping the rest of Stiles’ body from feeling hot shocks of arousal as Josh uses his breaks between orgasm to suck hickies and tease Stiles’ nipples.

 

“Talk,” Josh mumbles to Beth. “Get him there ‘gain.”

 

Beth sounds evilly delighted as she leans forward for a moment, camera down from her eye to say, “He’ll want to see this part too, Stiles. Watch your face as he pumps you full of come. You can come for him again, can’t you Stiles? You’re so touch hungry. Bet you get erections all the time, like a teenager. High schooler. Bet he can smell them on you. Waits until you go home and then jerks off thinking about how pretty you’d look on Derek Hale’s knot.”

 

Fuck her, because that does it. He’s coming again, milking Josh’s knot tight and hard as he orgasms without a drop coming out of his dick, thrashing and kicking. Josh comes one last time, and they both lie there, panting.

 

“Sorry, pretty,” Josh slurs. “‘Nother minute.”

 

“Fuck. you. both.” Stiles declares.

 

Beth snaps one more shot and then pulls her camera strap off her neck. “I think that’s enough for one day. We’ll do the rest tomorrow. That work for both of you?”

 

Josh grunts in the affirmative.

 

“No,” Stiles reminds her. “I have to drive all the way out here.”

 

“I’ll pay for your gas money,” she says, putting her camera away. “You need food and some sleep.”

 

“That means sacrificing time from studying for the test I have Monday,” Stiles explains patiently as Josh mumbles against his neck. It’s sad that this isn’t one of the more surreal moments of his life, adjusting schedules with his frenemy while a werewolf drools into his shoulder, knot hard in his ass and still giving Stiles little aftershocks.

 

“But we both know this is going to be your last one,” Beth counters. “Might as well do it right.”

 

“I could just stop,” Stiles mutters.

 

Beth raises one perfect eyebrow, but Stiles grew up adoring Lydia’s bitch-please face. Beth’s good, but she’s not Lydia levels of good. 

 

Josh snuffles the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles hides his wince. This is so uncomfortable. 

 

“Stiles, you don’t want to stop,” Beth explains to him, like he’s six. 

 

Well, no not like he’s six. That’ be creepy and illegal. But Stiles still doesn’t appreciate the condescension. Or being told what he wants. 

 

Josh starts rousing slowly. 

 

“Hey, think I’m soft enough now.” He pulls out on a rush of lube and Stiles is so glad he insisted on the condom because the tip is full like a little balloon. Gross.

 

Beth looks like she shares the sentiment, her lips tightened in disgust as she hands Josh a pin and snaps a shot afterwards of the leaking condom. “Wastebasket is over there,” she points.

 

Things get awkward when it comes to getting a shot of Stiles’ hole with lube and come smeared all over, leaking out. Mainly the awkward is from Stiles saying, “No,” about twelve times and finally threatening not to return. 

 

Something in his voice must be convincing because Beth finally gives up with a sigh. “Fine. But we both know you’re coming back. You want Derek jealous enough to claim you, this last shoot will do the trick. Pregnancy is a big thing in our crowd,” she says, gesturing between Josh and her.

 

“I’m a part of that crowd too, you know,” Stiles says after a moment because he doesn’t know what else to say other than the truth: Derek doesn’t want him like that. This is just a grand illusion Stiles can hold to himself, thinking of Derek growing angry and frustrated as he watches Stiles be fucked by another werewolf, watches him holding other supernatural people tight, kiss them, come for them.

 

“Uh-huh.” Beth ignores him, already breaking down her equipment. 

 

He leaves without saying another word.

 

 

 

 

Derek calls that night. 

 

Mikhail’s out at a party that Stiles wants to crash, but he really should study for his test. 

 

Stiles sits on his bed and listens as Derek talks about Erica and Boyd and their baby-expecting life, tells a story about Isaac and the girl he’s crushing on. It’s hard to get Derek talking, but Stiles is an expert. His still feels fucked-out and it’s hard not to reach down and palm himself. Not to jerk off, just to feel it, pretend Derek was the one who fucked him. 

 

Stiles could use some cuddling. Or, like, a beer and cartoons with Derek pressed against his shoulder. 

 

“You’re quiet,” Derek says. 

 

Stiles shifts around until his feet are up on the wall, stretching his hamstrings. They kind of hurt. 

 

“Got more work done on my tattoo,” he says, like that’s why he’s quiet. Spark things sometimes calm his ADHD, leave him mentally spent, like a good workout leaves his body. 

 

“You should let me pay for it.”

 

“Nah,” Stiles drags his big toe against the wall. He should clip his toenails. 

 

“It’s pack business,” Derek argues.

 

“It’s really not.” 

 

There’s silence for a minute. 

 

“How much did it cost.” 

 

“I’m not telling you that.” 

 

“Upwards of a thousand,” Derek guesses. 

 

Way upwards. The journal alone cost twelve hundred. 

 

“I’ve got it covered,” Stiles says. 

 

“Doing what?” 

 

“Working?” Stiles says, as much duh in there as he can get. 

 

“Stiles, you don’t have time to work. You’re at _Berkeley_ ,” Derek says. 

 

Stiles suspects he’s proud of him, the ways he says Berkeley whenever the subject comes up. 

 

“It’s a weekend thing. Just for a few months.” 

 

“At least let me pay for part of it,” Derek tries. 

 

“Derek,” Stiles hangs his head over the edge of his bed. “You can’t. I’m serious. This is my foundational tattoo. It needs to be all me.” 

 

More silence. 

 

“Is this a magic thing, or are you being a stubborn idiot?” 

 

Derek had tried to pay for his student loans. He has money from the fire, a nice nest egg, but not enough to pay the extra expenses Berkeley costs outside of Stiles’ scholarship. The fight had been pretty epic. Scott had finally solved things by suggesting that Derek help all of the pack out with textbook money. 

 

“Maybe both? But also definitely a magic thing. This one’s mine.” 

 

“I’m paying for the next one,” Derek concedes. “If it’s for the pack, the least I can do is cover the cost.” 

 

Stiles thinks about the rune on his neck. It hadn’t cost much, but he’ll bring it up next week, when he can think of an excuse for getting it done so early. 

 

“Whatever you say.” 

 

“Stiles,” Derek sounds serious. There’s a fine distinction between his usual Grumpy Cat personality and his serious tone, but Stiles knows the difference. 

 

“You’re part of my pack,” Derek says, and those words never fail to make Stiles feel fluffy warm right down to his toes, even before his emotions got all stupid over Derek. 

 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. 

 

“This is... this is part of my duty. As y- the alpha.”

 

Your? Was he going to say _your_ alpha? Is there a reason he didn’t say it?

 

“Let me do my job, okay?” 

 

“Okay, got it, O’ Alpha my Alpha. Next time I get inked I will let you pay for it.” 

 

“Good. Okay.” And Derek hangs up. No goodbyes, no grilling Stiles about his safety or his studying hours, no snarking at Stiles to eat enough because Derek is convinced he’s one meal away from starving. 

 

Stiles stares at his phone. What was that?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for small violence trigger warning.
> 
> If you catch any coding errors please let me know. It feels like tiny evil slug monsters are invading my sinuses, possibly for purposes of world domination.

He’s walking funny the next day. Josh probably pulled his thighs up over his shoulders like that on purpose, the asshole. Stiles has never wanted to soak in a hot tub so bad in his life. The drive is no fun. Stiles tries blasting music but that just makes him forget what he’s doing and start bopping along until his thighs remind him that no, they don’t forgive him, and his ass sides with his legs. And his neck hurts.

 

One more shoot, Stiles tells himself. Then he’s done. For good. Next time he wants money this much he’ll work at McDonald’s for a few weeks. Sell some mage work. Something other than this.

 

Josh is already there when Stiles walks in.

 

“Hey there, pretty,” he says. He steps up close, breathing in Stiles’ scent the way Stiles is only used to pack members doing. “Ready for today?”

 

Stiles steps around him, tossing back a “Yup,” with the P popped just to be annoying. He has some sparkwork to do. While Beth -- who is looking adorably non-evil as ever, wearing one of those flowy shirts that makes Stiles think of _Romeo and Juliet_ \-- and Ariana set up cameras and microphone booms. Stiles eyes the mics.

 

“Beth, I’m two seconds away from _walking out the fucking door_.” He points at the door for emphasis.

 

Beth doesn’t look sorry. “We’re doing a two-minute promo for the shoot,” she says. “Fully clothed, no sex. It will up my readership and get you greater visibility.”

 

“I don’t want greater visibility,” Stiles grinds out.

 

Beth smirks at him. “Yes, you do. Because guess who’s doing an interview for me next week?” Before Stiles can guess she sighs, “Christopher Long!”

 

Christopher Long, real name Chris Langston, is kind of a big deal in the supernatural community. He’s an omega werewolf. He’s also heir apparent to the Langston pack somewhere in England, if he ever decides being an up-and-coming A list actor just isn’t the life for him. 

 

Beth’s sales are going to go through the roof.

 

“It’s not part of my erotica,” Beth says. “He’s just going to do some frank talking about being a closeted werewolf in a media industry. I can’t draw too much attention from the humans by asking for an inside scoop.”

 

“The non-magic humans, you mean,” Stiles says on automatic. “Do, um. Does everyone know about this? Everyone is gonna visit your site?”

 

Beth nods happily. She’s on cloud nine about it.

 

Erica. Erica is going to visit the site because she’s a complete Christopher Long fangirl, has seen all his movies and interviews. Scott’s a fan too, but not to the extent Erica is. Erica will click his link, and she’ll tell Derek.

 

 _Derek is going to see this_.

 

Stiles’ stomach swoops. His palms are clammy. He’s nervous and giddy, suddenly saying, “Okay, no, do the shoot. Whole thing.”

 

Beth blinks, mouth a little open like she was saying something. Stiles interrupted her.

 

“If you’re sure,” she says, slowly. “Hold on, I’ll get the paperwork.”

 

Ariana smiles at him. “The mics were my idea,” she says. “I had a feeling.”

 

Stiles looks at her. She still looks normal. “Like,” he holds his hands up, fingers wiggling, “a _feeling_?”

 

She laughs at him. “No, I don’t get,” finger wiggles “ _feelings_. Just a normal feeling.”

 

Yeah, Stiles still has no idea what she is.

 

Apparently there’s a huge difference between getting ready for a little promo and getting ready for a full shoot. Stiles uses the time to rework his pregnant belly spell (he throws in a little work on the hickies, shifting them so they look like different hickies, like this is months later). Josh’s eyes are hot on him when his stomach expands like a balloon being blown up. It’s just an illusion, but Stiles works in an extra layer so that it will feel real as well. Not baby-kicking-his-bladder real, but Josh’s hands should rest on the curve naturally. 

 

Josh palms himself through his jeans, eyes locked with Stiles’. Stiles is starting to hope he never sees Josh again after this, even if Josh’s gaze is making his insides all hot, blood pumping down to his dick.

 

Personally, Stiles thinks his pregnant belly looks ridiculous, happy trail and flat chest and faint abs blending into something so womanly. But even Beth seems to like it. She raises an impressed eyebrow.

 

“Not bad,” she says.

 

“Such high praise,” Stiles says, grasping his heart. “I can’t take it.” He staggers back as if he’s going to fall, but the next moment a big hand catches his elbow, an arm circles his waist. What used to be his waist. His belly feels heavy.

 

“Careful, Stiles,” Josh says, lips against Stiles’ ear. Stiles swallows and curls his toes inside his shoes. He’s breathing through his mouth a little.

 

Josh nuzzles his ear, scenting down his throat like he’s picking where to mark. Stiles thinks if he so much as gave Josh the slightest hint he wanted anything Josh would be all over that. He’d keep Stiles marked up and well-fucked, show him off like arm candy, like something gorgeous and perfect. Show him off around town, dote on him.

 

Stiles doesn’t want that. He pictures Derek meeting Josh’s alpha to discuss -- no. Never mind. He desperately wants Derek to acknowledge the thing between them, that there _is_ a thing between them, and it could maybe be really good. But Stiles isn’t enough of a dick to make Derek negotiate a treaty so that Stiles can date another man.

 

One of Josh’s hands comes up hesitantly to rub at Stiles’ belly.

 

“Fuck,” Josh says. “It’s a good thing you don’t smell pregnant. I’d lose it.”

 

Stiles shivers. 

 

“Still smell delicious, though.” Josh licks at his pulse point. Stiles isn’t sure if this neck thing is Josh’s kink or a werewolf kink. Allison sometimes complains about hickies.

 

“We’ll start there,” Beth says. “Josh, you’re going to talk about his scent, get him worked up. This will be a nice slow fuck. I want to show you taking care of your pregnant mate.”

 

Josh looks down at Stiles and licks his lower lip. “How slow?”

 

“Uh,” Stiles starts, but once again Beth ignores him.

 

“Take him apart,” she tells Josh. “I want him sobbing. He should come at least twice.”

 

Twenty minutes later Stiles is naked, spread out on their -- _the_ \-- bed as Josh smooths his hands over Stiles’ body. It feels a little like a massage, just touch and slow, deep breathing. Stiles’ entire body feels relaxed. His dick is mostly soft, lying heavy against his balls.

 

Josh sweeps his hands up Stiles’ legs, palming the muscle there, up to cup his hipbones, then around to stroke under his belly. He follows Stiles’ happy trail with the back of his hand, laying a possessive palm against where their imaginary baby is resting.

 

“You’re gorgeous, all pregnant like this,” Josh murmurs against his belly. “Smell so good. Reek of me.”

 

Josh hasn’t shaved today, and his whiskers are sharp against Stiles’ fragile, girly skin. This is too intimate. It’s too easy for Stiles to forget this isn’t real, even with the boom and the lights and the annoying cameras.

 

“You’re leaving beard burn,” Stiles says, but his voice is lazy, sounds fond, and that’s worse, sounds like something he’d bitch at his boyfriend for. They’re really selling this.

 

Beth looks maniacally pleased.

 

Josh chuckles, buzzes more kisses against the baby bump. He plays with Stiles’ left nipple, petting it and lightly pinching it, just gentle pressure.

 

Stiles shifts up into it.

 

“Not too tender?” Josh asks.

 

It takes Stiles a second to realize he’s playing along, asking considerate pregnancy questions. Stiles shakes his head.

 

Josh pinches a little harder, then slides up to nip sharply. With Stiles’ body so relaxed it’s a shock, but a nice one, pain immediately soothed by Josh’s hot, wet mouth suckling. He switches sides and suckles there as well, like he’s trying to draw up Stiles’ milk, hand still caressing Stiles’ stomach.

 

It’s hot. His dick starts to fill up. Josh’s fingers come down to lightly feather over his dick, holding it, not giving Stiles stimulation, just appreciating his right to touch Stiles like this. Stiles can’t help thinking _If I was his mate_....

 

He flinches back from that thought. Stiles brings his hands up to Josh’s head, fingers on his short hair, distracting himself.

 

“Freeze!” Beth calls.

 

“Problem?” Josh asks, impatient.

 

“Just want to remind Stiles what he’s doing here,” Beth says. “Josh is your mate, Stiles. He’s calling the shots right now, taking care of you. I know you like being part of the action, but that’s not what’s happening right now. Let him be in control.” There are layers of thick suggestion in her voice. Stiles could let it blow over him, but instead he sinks into it, lets himself relax. 

 

He nods lazily. His fingers are still on Josh’s head, but they’re loose now, just feeling his soft kinky hair, the nice shape of his skull.

 

“Am I in control right now, pretty?” Josh asks. For the camera, maybe, or maybe just to watch Stiles say “Yes,” and mean it.

 

“Good boy,” Josh praises. “Promise, I’ll make you feel so good. I’ll make you as happy as you make me.”

 

This last is said with another kiss to Stiles’ stomach, and Stiles is starting to get why some women like being pregnant. He’s powerful at magework, more powerful than most sparks can dream. He could carry a child if he wanted.

 

Josh pets through his hair, slides a thumb against Stiles’ wet lower lip, and Stiles licks after it.

 

Josh’s hand grips his throat. “You agreed,” he says. He sounds a little indulgent, though. Sure of his authority in a way that’s almost alpha.

 

Stiles’ dick twitches.

 

“Sorry babe,” Stiles says. “Couldn’t resist.”

 

Josh ignores him in favor of pinning his wrists above his head, which Stiles finds irritating. Stiles can’t help thinking that Derek wouldn’t ignore him, would snort or maybe roll his eyes, affectionate. Stiles closes his eyes and pushes that thought away.

 

Josh slides his hands under Stiles’ knees and pulls Stiles’ legs apart. Beth zooms in for a close up as Josh loosely thumbs over Stiles’ hole, soft and promising. Teasing. He thumbs around and over, pushing just enough to feel the give of how relaxed and ready Stiles is without actually giving him anything to clench down on.

 

Stiles bites his lips against the insults that want to come out. He’s very good -- doesn’t push up into Josh’s thumb at all, focuses on wiggling his toes, bites his lip harder, and keeps his hips still. They jump once when Josh presses a lubed finger against him. Stiles breathes out steadily as Josh repeats his gentle stroking, rubbing Stiles’ hole over and over like he’s rubbing a girl’s clit.

 

“M’not,” Stiles manages, “a girl. Pregnancy doesn’t make me a girl with a clit you have to rub.”

 

Josh smiles, looks wicked. “You saying you’re not my sweet girl, baby?” He sinks that finger in, slick and sweet, leaves it there for Stiles’ to twitch around.

 

Stiles can feel his blush.

 

“You sure feel slick like a girl. I barely have to lube you up.” He proves this by adding a second, unlubed finger. It goes in smoothly, and Stiles isn’t sure if that’s how relaxed he is or if he’s subconsciously directing his magic. His back is hot against the sheets, he’s sweating everywhere, can smell his own musk and stink.

 

Josh’s gaze wander up and down Stiles’ body, eyes full of ownership. Stiles wants to kick him in the face. Mostly. Mostly he wants to kick him in the face. Except for the rest of him that’s preening, stretching to show off his baby bump, dick kissing the underside, leaving a wet smear of precome. His legs fall open until his knees are almost resting on the mattress, vulnerable and on display for Derek. 

 

Josh! For Josh. 

 

He blames this on spending too much time with werewolves, with their body language and their hierarchies.

 

Josh gives him another finger and holds him there on three, not moving. He’s laughing at Stiles.

 

“You’re so horny. Just this is almost enough for you.”

 

Stiles sweats and pants and stays still, like a good boy.

 

Josh leans in. “Clench up, pretty,” he says. “And hold it ‘til I say.”

 

It’s hard. After the first few seconds the muscles in his ass want to loosen. Stiles has to keep re-clenching without ever letting go so that he’s milking Josh’s fingers tighter and tighter. The muscles in his stomach and back clench in sympathy, his toes curl until he starts to get a charlie horse in one foot.

 

Josh stares, still not moving his fingers, watching Stiles fight his physical instincts, fight his body to obey Josh. Stiles would totally call a timeout except it feels wonderful, difficult as it is to keep bearing down. He can feel Josh’s knuckles, can feel his fingertips inside him, his fingers solid and ungiving.

 

Finally Stiles gasps “Please!” and Josh says, “Okay pretty. Relax.”

 

The breath punches out of him as Stiles sags back into the sheets. The hard knot between his shoulder blades unfurls, and the way his glutes and abs relax feels amazing. He shivers and sobs as Josh urges him up onto his knees, facing the cameras. 

 

One hand grasps his throat gently. Josh murmurs sweet things about how sexy Stiles looks all rounded with the baby, how he’s so good, so sweet. 

 

Stiles realizes he’s staring straight into a camera, open and wrecked. He wants so badly for Derek to see this, to see how good Stiles can be, how much he wants this. He’s not sweet. He’s stubborn beyond reason and unsentimental, viciously protective of his loved ones. But he could let Derek in like this, let him see his squishy parts, his soft underbelly. He can obey Derek.

 

Josh slides carefully behind him, palms smoothing up and down Stiles’ sides to calm the skittish out of him. When Josh is seated back against the headboard with pillows behind his back he leans forward, head against the small of Stiles’ back, arms reaching around to rest on his belly, and just breathes for a moment. Ariana’s camera whirrs softly as she zooms in to capture the moment.

 

Stiles closes his eyes and feels him, warm against his back like Derek was in the kitchen. He squirms toward the heat, letting it be Derek for a second. 

 

“Okay baby,” Josh says. Something crinkles. “Okay, I’m putting a condom on so that we won’t make a mess. And you’re just going to lean back and sink right down. I’ve got you.” His hands rest on Stiles’ hips as he slowly guides him back, and it’s a relief to sink down onto Josh’s cock, to have that solid length tucked inside where he’s loose and achey. In his head it’s Derek’s cock filling him. 

 

When it’s all in Stiles feels Josh’s hand wrap lightly around his throat again, pulling him back against Josh’s chest. It’s a lot like their first time, like what Stiles wanted their first time when Josh has teased him with thrusts that couldn’t enter, held him up for Derek to see. That fantasy rushes through his head, dirtier and more lurid: his pack keeping him well fucked for Derek, holding him and giving him what he needs, scent pushed into his body, into his pores so that when Derek returned Stiles would smell like pack, like _home_.

 

Josh is still making soothing sounds, telling Stiles to let him do all the work, let me take care of you pretty, as his hands urge Stiles to move up and down on his dick. Josh’s chest hair tickles his tattoo, but Josh is careful not to touch him there. 

 

Stiles rides him loose and fluid, out of his mind with how he’s filled, the hand still around his throat, the possessive, tender words in his ear. Stiles feels ripe, like summer fruit, belly firm and round, air humid and sex scented. He’s sobbing. For breath, and for Derek, and the way Josh is fucking up into him, skating over his prostate but not pushing against it. 

 

Josh pulls Stiles’ hands up to his nipples, tells him to pinch and Stiles does, pinches just hard enough that he can feel it down to his dick, hurting and too much but necessary because Josh won’t let him touch his dick.

 

“Is he kicking?” Josh asks.

 

Stiles shakes his head, and it’s only after a moment that he realizes Josh is pretending for the camera again.

 

“Please, I need you to touch me,” Stiles says, looking over his shoulder at Josh.

 

Josh smirks.

 

“Not yet, baby. You can wait a little longer.”

 

“Please!” Stiles gasps. “Pleasepleaseplease. I need-”

 

Josh sits up, bending Stiles forward a little with his hands on Stiles’ hips. Stiles’ hands fly to the mattress to keep his balance.

 

“You need to wait,” Josh says, voice stern. “Wait until I say.”

 

Stiles is angled now so that Josh’s dick brushes against his prostate.

 

“Give me your hands.”

 

Stiles trusts his weight against Josh’s strength, reaching back for Josh’s hand. Josh grasps his wrists behind his back, pulls Stiles back farther against him.

 

“There you go,” he says. “Ride my cock.”

 

It’s more intense like this, and it pushes Stiles to the edge but it’s still not enough. He struggles up to his knees until Josh’s dick is just kissing his hole, takes a breath, and slams down. It aches. It’s perfect. He lifts up, does it again. Again.

 

“Slow down or you’ll hurt yourself, babe. Easy.”

 

Stiles nods and gasps and goes a little slower but it’s so much, it’s so much and he needs to come so badly. Why can’t he come?

 

“Keep your hands here,” Josh says, squeezing his wrists. He reaches around and cups Stiles’ balls. He laughs a little. They’re drawn up tight. He strokes one hand languidly over Stiles’ dick.

 

“Okay,” he says. “It’s okay. You can come now.”

 

Stiles goes off like a rocket. He’s silent as he comes, out of air and oddly aware of the camera a few inches from his face, that he’s on display for everyone to see the way he comes when Josh tells him, watch as his dick pulses and pulses, come dripping everywhere.

 

When his orgasm ends Stiles only has a second to register the way Josh kneels up behind him before Josh starts fucking him, hard and steady. Stiles moans, and then Josh’s hand tightens. He strips Stiles’ dick ruthlessly, keeping him hard. 

 

It hurts, nerves sparking. Tears stream down Stiles’ cheeks, but he pushes up into it and down against Josh’s cock. His second orgasm starts in his toes, works up the back of his legs to lightning up his spine until he’s stiffening in shocked, pained pleasure, no words and no sight either as he comes again.

 

Stiles collapses forward onto his elbows, pregnant belly supported by the mattress. Josh takes a second to make sure he’s not squishing Stiles, hurting their child, and then he grips Stiles’ hips bruisingly tight and fucks fast and shallow, finally getting off. He pushes in and holds, knot swelling and-

 

Stiles comes again. Josh’s knot filling him, pressing bright and firm where Stiles needs it. It rolls through him languorously, his dick spitting a few drops as an afterthought.

 

Josh pulls them onto their sides. He rubs Stiles’ belly, lets his fingers drift over Stiles’ nipples, his balls, avoiding the over sensitive head of his dick, occasionally pressing his teeth against Stiles’ throat as he comes and comes.

 

Stiles slips into a doze, vaguely aware of Ariana and Beth putting away equipment, of Josh’s hot breath uncomfortably close to his tattoo.

 

Eventually a hand shakes his shoulder and something cold and wet is pushed into his hand. He realizes that Josh pulled out and is dumping the ballooned condom across the room. The wet things are baby wipes.

 

Hallelujah.

 

Ariana pushes more into his hands. “You kind of smell,” she says. “Do you need water to end the...” She motions at his belly.

 

Stiles has to clear his throat twice before he can say, “Yeah. Thanks.” He drips a little water from her bottle onto his belly, concentrates, and rubs the spell away. His flat, guy’s stomach looks weird now.

 

His hips are bruised.

 

“Are we supposed to do the intro thing?” he asks.

 

Beth is across the room talking to Josh, but she looks up.

 

“Christopher Long isn’t coming until next Friday,” she says. “Everything will go up the following Monday, including your shoot. You can take care of it sometime before then. It’ll take forty-five minutes, tops.”

 

Stiles nods and doesn’t protest. He’s out of it, exhausted. Needs to process, find somewhere to fold this all away. Once he’s dressed he texts Adam to cancel his appointment.

 

Beth packs up, talking about lunch. She tells Ariana to be back by two and sails out the door, pink Princess Bubblegum phone at her ear. It’s breaking Stiles’ mind a little that she’s so blase after all that.

 

Josh hangs back, looking like he wants to talk.

 

Stiles walks around him. A hand comes down on Stiles shoulder and Stiles just reacts.

 

A burst of power flies Josh back like a kung-fu movie effect. He lands a foot shy of the wall and jumps to his feet, eyes gold. 

 

Stiles is not in the mood for this. He turns to pull his wolfsbane out of his wallet, but Ariana steps between them.

 

“We talked about this,” she says to Josh. “We only let you back for this shoot because you promised to walk away afterwards. You said you weren’t getting attached.”

 

Okay, Stiles could have told her that was a load of bull. Josh has been attached since before they finished the first shoot.

 

Well, at least _someone_ was concerned about safety. 

 

Josh forces himself to relax, eyes returning to green. 

 

“Sorry I grabbed you,” he tells him. To Ariana he says, “I just want to talk to him.”

 

Ariana snorts. “That’s not how this works. And now’s not a good time.” She waves sharply at Stiles like he’s three steps from death instead of emotionally and physically over exercised.

 

It’s Stiles’ turn to snort. “This was called Wednesday where I grew up,” he says. “Go ahead Josh. Get if off your chest. But you already know what I’m gonna say, right?”

 

Josh... if Stiles could spare an emotion he’d feel sorry for the guy. His heart is in his eyes.

 

“I know I’m not an alpha,” Josh says, “But Stiles. Just coffee, or something. Please. Let’s see where this could go.”

 

Stiles is tired, and not a good person, and good at reading people when he really looks at them. He can see exactly how it would go, and Josh is right, it would go somewhere. But he says, “Go home, Josh,” and turns to leave.

 

“If it takes this much for him to come to you then how much does he really want you, Stiles?” Josh says. He looks as if he’s going to follow Stiles out the door, but Ariana hisses. The sound is inhuman, and when Stiles spins around her eyes are glowing lurid green, and her hands end in talons. 

 

“Josh, I won’t warn you again” she scream-speaks. Her voice sounds like Galadriel when she goes all photo-negative after Frodo offers her the Ring. The hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stands up. 

 

Josh gives Stiles a wide berth as he leaves. They wait until the door closes behind him.

 

“Huh,” Stiles says. “Banshee?”

 

“That’s not what we’re called where my abuela comes from, but yeah.”

 

“Good to know,” Stiles says. He gives her a double thumbs up and a smile. The way he drops both a moment later probably looks creepy. He’s too tired to care.

 

“Look, do you need something? I don’t know if you should drive like this,” Ariana says.

 

Stiles breaths in. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. You can-- do you know any good trees?”

 

 

 

 

Ariana drops him off at a public park. He doesn’t let her follow him out of the car, shaking off her worried looks. He walks slowly under the sunshine until he reaches a clump of trees. 

 

There’s a large, thick-trunked tree a few yards away, but Stiles stumbles instead to a tree on his left. It’s an oak, older than the tall elm though it doesn’t look it. There must have been another tree blocking it’s sunlight when it was a sapling because it’s twisted and contorted. One of its beams is almost horizontal, and Stiles easily walks the incline until he can reach a higher branch and pull himself up. He keeps going until he finds a comfortable niche in the trunk about twenty feet up. When he’s comfortable he leans back and breathes in the green.

 

He doesn’t leave until the sun sets.

 

 

 

 

He ignores Derek’s call that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Josh gets a little pushy, grabbing Stiles' shoulder when Stiles ignores him due to mental/emotional exhaustion. Stiles pushes him away, and Josh backs down. There is no physical violence or threats.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See warnings at end.

Stiles texts Derek: _Srry hvn’t calld. Lts of hmwrk. Rub E’s belly for me. See you all on the 20th._

 

He feels like a coward.

 

 

 

 

The promo is shot on a cheap sofa that usually sits against the far wall of Beth’s studio. 

 

Josh isn’t there. 

 

Stiles introduces himself without using a name. Beth never uses names for her pieces, says it gets in the way of the fantasy or something. He suspects it’s also because the supernatural community is so small; anonymity is pretty important. 

 

She has him wear a hoodie and slump against the sofa in a way that hides whether or not he has a baby bump, to “keep the narrative alive”. 

 

Yeah.

 

Rather than go back and forth with Beth like porn openings usually do, Stiles answers a list of questions fans have sent in. He laughs off things like “What’s your email address?” and “Where do you go to school?” 

 

“Mark from Minneappolis wants to know if I was a virgin before I met my boyfriend,” Stiles reads. “Nah, sorry, Mark, I lost my virginity at prom. And my gay-ginity my freshman year of college.

 

“Lessee. D. G. from Topeka asks if I like hickies. It depends on who gives them to you.” Stiles waggles his eyebrows. 

 

Behind the camera Beth gives him a look like: _really_? 

 

Stiles ignores her. That was totally suave. 

 

“Annnd, okay, is this my last one?” 

 

Beth nods. 

 

“Not telling you my phone number, not sorry.” Stiles shuffles through the pages for something he hasn’t answered. The lion’s share of the questions are personal, inappropriate, or both: what was your first masturbation fantasy, and how old were you? Have you ever been gangbanged? How many dildos do you own for that needy hole?

 

Stiles has already answered _How long is your dick_? (Long enough.) _Do you prefer boys over girls_? (He notices girls more, but he’s an equal opportunity romantic.) _Do you jerk off to your own erotica shoots_? (Nope.) 

 

Beth motions for him to get his fingers out of his mouth. Stiles does not make a face at her as he stops chewing on his nail, because he’s a professional or something. 

 

_Hurry up_ , Beth motions, so Stiles picks the next question he sees. 

 

“Okay, Cara wants to know....” 

 

He looks up at Beth a little panicked, but she waves for him to keep going. 

 

“Wants to know what it’s like to be in love with a werewolf.” 

 

The obvious candidate Cara has in mind is Josh, but Stiles isn’t going to lead him on even for pretend. On the other hand Beth’s all-important narrative means he can’t say nope, sorry, it’s all fake. 

 

Stiles is uncomfortably aware that Erica will see this and mock him forever if he tries to bullshit because she always knows when he’s lying. It’s like, a bonus of being friends, except in a negative way. A anti-bonus? A bogus? 

 

Stiles looks at the camera and answers, “He’s an idiot sometimes. He makes me furious not explaining when there’s werewolfy reasons behind his decisions . But he’s an amazing person, and I can’t separate him into parts.” Stiles shrugs. “I love all of him.” 

 

Beth rolls her eyes so hard it looks like it hurts. She holds up the giant-ass cue card with instructions for the video link, which is apparently available to the public via a paypal account if they’re not magazine-type people. 

 

While Beth packs away her camera stuff and fills out Stiles’ check he prays to God, or the universe, or maybe the gods he’s supposed to appeal to as a mage (except he’s still an atheist, thanks) that when Erica sees his promo she doesn’t watch his session all the way through. Because that would be the kind of awkward he could do without. 

 

(He’s aware that panicking about Erica is just a way to avoid panicking about Derek, but he’s comfortable with this life choice. No, really.) 

 

 

 

 

After the promo Stiles goes to Adam’s to get the last part of his tattoo colored. There’s only the fox left, but it’s the trickiest both because Adam has to use white and because the fox represents Stiles’ self. It’s his magical talents and potential, but also who he is apart from that. Stiles has to focus and meditate for each stroke of color, waving at Adam whenever his concentration breaks so Adam can pause. 

 

Adam’s weirder than usual about staring at Stiles’ stomach. He laughed when Stiles first came in and high fived him, but then said, “Oh. Oh man, my bad,” and now looks... sad? Or like, disapointed. 

 

Stiles isn’t worried Adam is foreseeing his future. Nope, not at all. That is not a thing that is happening. 

 

Stiles shrugs everything off his shoulders and concentrates on where his will resides, feeds it to Adam’s ink. 

 

When Adam’s finally finished Stiles has to ask him for a mirror. And a second mirror since it’s on his back. Then he has to wait while Adam finds the main light switch. Finds it, like maybe Adam’s never used it before. 

 

He takes a deep breath before looking. 

 

The ink is perfect. It doesn’t look exactly like Stiles pictured it, but it does look exactly like it should. It’s colorful, a good balance of realistic and stylized from the pen sketch. The shape fits to Stiles’ body organically.

 

He tips Adam fifty dollars. 

 

 

 

 

It’s too early. Stiles opens one eye to read the red glaring numbers on his clock, then lets his phone go to voicemail without looking at the caller ID. It starts ringing again, like the caller hung up on the voice mail and redialed. Stiles finally picks up his phone and squints at it. 

 

_Come Hither Productions_. 

 

Stiles growls. 

 

“What do you not understand about ‘I’m done’?” His voice is early morning husky, and he has sleep sand crusted in the corners of his eyes. His mouth tastes gross. 

 

Mikhail slits his eyes open enough to glare at Stiles from his bed. Mikhail’s an okay dude, but three months into being roommates and he has mastered the ‘deeply unimpressed with you’ look. Luckily Stiles is immune. 

 

“So apparently you didn’t bother telling your pack about faking a pregnancy,” Beth says. She sounds annoyed. She also sounds awake and peppy. Stiles hates her. 

 

He sits up, yawning so hard his jaw pops. 

 

“Of course I didn’t. Why would I do that? It’s not really the kind of thing that comes up. That would be a really awkward and unnecessary conversation.” 

 

Mikhail rolls over and buries his head under his pillow pointedly. He’s the kind of health freak who will drag Stiles out jogging with him in revenge, so Stiles stuffs his feet into his shoes and stumbles out into the commons, blanket around his shoulders. No one else is there because it’s freaking nine in the morning on a Saturday. Stiles hates everything. 

 

“You don’t think it might have been important to warn certain people about faking your pregnancy before they saw the video and drew their own conclusions?” Beth asks, syrupy sweet. 

 

Well, when she puts it that way. 

 

“Um,” Stiles says. His fingers feel numb where he’s gripping his phone. He collapses into one of the ugly green chairs. 

 

“Yeah, _um_ ,” Beth agrees. “Do you know who just showed up _at my apartment_ to get Josh’s contact information?” 

 

Stiles hangs his head between his knees and breathes for a moment. 

 

“Oh shit, oh shit,” he mutters. “Oh shit, Beth I am so sorry.” 

 

Beth sighs. “I’ll let it go since I’m sweet like that,” she says magnanimously. “By the way, I set him straight about Josh being your baby daddy.” 

 

“That’s... good?” Stiles asks, because her tone is not happy-making. 

 

“Mmm,” Beth agrees. “It was nice of me, wasn’t it? I was very helpful.” 

 

“Beth,” Stiles says, slowly, suspicion squirming in his stomach. “What did you tell him?” 

 

“I’d guess you have twenty minutes before he gets there,” Beth says. 

 

“ _You sent him here_?” Stiles whisper-shouts. “What the fuck, you fucking... _siren_!” He can’t think of a proper insult right now, but later, he’ll think of plenty of them later. All the insults. Just as soon as he’s done panicking. 

 

It’s not like she heard him anyway. The call is dead. Great. 

 

Stiles sits there for a minute, overwhelmed by the wave of _holy fucking shit_ rolling through his brain. Then he realizes he’s just sitting there when Derek is going to be there in less than twenty minutes. 

 

He panics. 

 

Stiles tries to jump up but a corner of the blanket is caught under his shoe so instead he sort of tumbles out of the ugly chair, and staggers into a run. He trips on the stupid blanket again on his way up the stairs and hears tearing but oh that is the least of his problems because he needs to get Mikhail out of their room before his lovely, normal life is interrupted by a pissed off, red-eyed alpha werewolf. 

 

Stiles has been in those shoes, and they were not fun shoes. 

 

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bac-y!” Stiles shouts. 

 

Mikhail sits up all at once, like Frankenstein doing the “I LIIIIVE!”, minus the zombie arms. 

 

“Fire?” he asks. “Earthquake?” There’s drool on his chin. 

 

“Nah dude it’s-” Stiles thinks fast, “Your ex! She’s on her way. You might want to get out of here.” He thumbs towards the door. 

 

It’s not a nice thing to do. Mikhail’s ex-girlfriend is the kind of nuts that leads to stalking him at campus parties and telling any other girl he talks to that his dick is only two inches long and also she owns a gun and is an expert markswoman. He seriously needs to get a restraining order. 

 

Mikhail goes a little crazy-eyed. 

 

“Shit! Stiles, you’re the best, man. Tell her I’m out jogging, or no, tell her I’m out of town. Yeah, out of town.” 

 

Mikhail grabs yesterday’s jeans off the floor and what might be one of Stiles’ t-shirts. Stiles helpfully hands him his shoes, his keys, and a Politics in Southeast Asia textbook. 

 

“Go hang out at that coffee shop,” he says. “I’ll text you when it’s safe.” I’ll text you when there’re no angry werewolves. Same thing. 

 

Mikhail books it out the door with a last, “I owe you one!” over his shoulder. 

 

Stiles stuffs his blanket back on the bed and runs down the hall to the shared bathroom to brush his teeth, wash his face, and run a wet hand through his hair -- okay, not great, but it’ll have to do. He dashes back to his dorm to yank on some jeans and scour the room for a shirt that doesn’t smell like any combination of Josh, lube, sex, and deceit. Since it’s laundry day -- week -- okay, he’s been meaning to do laundry for a while -- he ends up with a choice the ugly sweater Mrs. McCall gave Scott and Scott “lost” at Stiles’ and Stiles only keeps because if he leaves it at home his dad will return it to Mrs. McCall, or the blood-stained wifebeater that may or may not be Derek’s and which Stiles may or may not have stolen before he left for college. To jerk off with. 

 

The sweater scratches his nipples. The wifebeater probably doesn’t smell like Derek anymore. Decisions. 

 

But of course that’s when Kelly from across the hall yips in surprise. Stiles turns with a sense of unsurprised doom -- there’s a French phrase for that but he forgets how to pronounce it -- and there’s Derek, nostrils flared and eyes like hot coals. 

 

“Hey,” Stiles waves weakly. 

 

Behind Derek Kelly makes her escape down the hall. Stiles should probably feel bad about that, but he’s busy watching the way Derek’s eyes go wide and fade to hazel. 

 

“Did you lose the baby?” 

 

Stiles kind of blinks at him for a minute. 

 

“What?” 

 

“You’re flat.” Derek motions lamely at Stiles’ bare belly. “You were showing in the-” he leaves the rest of his sentence dangling between them. 

 

Jesus, he actually watched the film. Stiles can’t look him in the eye. He stares at Derek’s left shoulder. 

 

“I thought. Beth said she straightened you out on,” Stiles twirls his hand to indicate the whole pregnancy porn thing. 

 

“Josh isn’t the father,” Derek says. He nods once, forcefully, as punctuation. “Is it your roommate? He smelled like you.” But he says this like he doubts it. Stiles is pretty sure Mikhail took his only shirt that had zero sex smell on it. 

 

“...there isn’t a father? Because there isn’t a baby,” Stiles clarifies. “Did you stalk Mikhail? Not cool, dude. He’s already worried about his creepy ex.”

 

“Only for a few yards. What happened?” Derek still has his fretting face on. Stiles lets the Mikhail thing go. 

 

“Beth Thalassa happened. I don’t know, it seemed like a good idea at the time? Do we really have to talk about it? I make poor life decisions. It is known.”

 

Whoah, Derek is suddenly in Stiles’ personal space. He can taste Derek’s aftershave when he breathes in. 

 

“Did she do something to you?” Derek asks. His hand comes up to hover over Stiles’ shoulder like he wants to pat him reassuringly. 

 

“No?” 

 

“You don’t sound sure.” 

 

“That’s because I don’t know what the hell we’re talking about!” Stiles waves his arms. “It’s just porn. It’s not like I let her have her wicked way with me. Look, I have a contract.” He dives under his bed for the folder where he stashed it, finds it, and army-crawls backwards. Then a hand is on the back of his neck, holding him still on his knees. 

 

“You got another tattoo,” Derek says. 

 

“Gah,” Stiles answers. And really, getting out that much was impressive. He’s simultaneously freaking out because this is maybe the worst possible way for Derek to find out about the tattoo, and trying to think of something that will keep his dick soft. Because Derek holding him here on his knees? _Fuck_. 

 

Derek shakes him slightly, like Josh did. It must be a werewolf thing, Stiles thinks as he gives up on staying soft. 

 

“You promised,” Derek hisses. 

 

“Yeah. I know.” Stiles doesn’t say anything else because Derek’s right. He screwed up. 

 

Derek’s hold stays tight enough to be uncomfortable, but then he seems mollified. 

 

“What is this for?” he asks, stroking his thumb over the ink.

 

Stiles takes a second to swallow a moan. “It’s for illusions. Helps me cast them.” 

 

Stiles’s neck feels cold when Derek lets go. Stiles turns around slowly, still on his knees. 

 

Derek has gone from frowning to blank-faced, leaning back against Mikhail’s dresser. 

 

“So, the pregnancy was an illusion,” he says slowly. “You were _never_ pregnant?” 

 

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m leaving that to Erica.” 

 

Derek closes his eyes in relief for a moment. Then he straightens up, Serious Alpha Business face back on. He leans over Stiles, getting a good look at the tattoo. 

 

“This isn’t too intricate. How much did it cost?” 

 

His dick is like a foot away from Stiles’ face. 

 

“Stiles, I asked how much it cost,” all command voice, and Stiles brain shorts out. 

 

“About eighty dollars,” Stiles says perfunctorily. “If you lower your zip I could blow you.” 

 

Nothing happens for a long moment. Can he smell Stiles’ hard-on? Derek’s dick is still right there, close enough that Stiles is almost breathing on Derek’s jeans. He licks his lips.

 

The silence stretches thin before Derek reaches one hand out and rubs it through Stiles’ hair, tilting his head back, forcing him to meet Derek’s eyes. Derek’s pupils are blown wide, aroused. 

 

Stiles opens his mouth, pants wetly, needy moan caught in his throat. 

 

“Yeah?” Derek asks, fingers petting through Stiles’ hair. 

 

Stiles tries to say yes with his eyes. He’s beyond words, dick rubbing against his zip through his worn-thin boxers, mouth full of spit. 

 

Derek thumbs open his jeans button and lowers his zip. Stiles can feel the tick of each zipper tooth in his balls. The second that zip is down he’s on Derek, reaching into his black briefs to pull out his cock. It’s so pretty, thick and perfect, blushed along his length and plump red at the tip. Stiles sucks the head into his mouth tootsie-pop style. He’s trembling, adrenalin screaming _This is it!_ through his veins. 

 

Derek groans, rubs his hand through Stiles’ hair gently. But.

 

Possessive, it’s possessive and the sort of patient that only comes from iron control. Stiles reaches a hand down to adjust himself because that thought makes him hurt. 

 

Derek growls. Stiles unbuttons enough that his dick isn’t being squished anymore before letting go, bringing his hand up to Derek instead. The skin of Derek’s dick is soft, feels nice in Stiles’ hand. He slowly brings his head down until his lips are kissing his own hand, pulls back up just as slowly to flick his tongue over Derek’s frenulum. 

 

“Stiles,” Derek breathes. His hand slides to Stiles’ neck, pulling him back down, showing Stiles what feels good. Stiles speeds up, trying to make it good for him. This isn’t a great angle for deepthroating, he’s only ever done it on his back before, but Stiles pushes himself a little further as soon as he can. 

 

There’s spit everywhere, wetting Stiles’ hand and Derek’s briefs. Stiles other hand rests on Derek’s thigh, pulling him into Stiles’ mouth in little nudges until Derek finally gets the hint, pushes him down Derek’s dick and keeps him there. Stiles moans and swallows around his cock for a count of maybe twelve, maybe more. Stiles can’t think in numbers with Derek touching him, rolling his hips into Stiles’ face. Derek steps forward until his knees brush Stiles’ ribs, Stiles tilts his head farther to compensate and then his throat is a vertical slide. Derek lets Stiles pull back for a breath but then Stiles is back and he’s down, all the way, Derek’s pubes against his nose so he’s breathing in musk. 

 

“Okay, Stiles,” Derek is saying. “Okay, okay. Stiles. I’ve got you.” 

 

He lets go again, lets Stiles back off, gasp for breath but breathing isn’t what Stiles needs right now. Derek’s hand at his throat stops him when he tries to dive back down, gorge himself on Derek, on getting to _have_ this. 

 

“Breathe,” Derek snarls in the tone even Stiles listens to. He gulps oxygen, waiting. 

 

Derek runs a finger over Stiles’ mouth, not letting him suck it in even though Stiles wants to taste, wants the whorls of Derek’s fingerprints on his tongue. 

 

“Caught your breath?” Derek asks, warning him. His hand clasps Stiles’ nape and draws him down again, pushes his cock all the way down Stiles’ throat. Keeps him there. 

 

Stiles swallows and swallows, blissed on how perfect this is, everything he wants right here. And then Derek’s breathing speeds up, fingers tighten, and that warmth in Stiles’ throat is his come. Stiles pulls back, sucking breath through his nostrils, until he can catch the last spill in his mouth, taste Derek’s come. He needs to taste. 

 

Derek urges him to his feet so he can lick Stiles’ mouth, hand coming around to cup Stiles’ through his jeans. Stiles thrusts into the heat, but Derek pulls back to unzip him, strip him naked. He crowds Stiles back onto his bed. Then his hand is around Stiles’ dick, stroking steady and rough. 

 

Stiles arches up into it, making sounds like he’s dying. 

 

“There, c’mon. Stiles, come for me,” Derek murmurs in his ear, adoring. 

 

So Stiles does. 

 

He gasps like a beached fish afterwards. He feels wrecked, total overload. Derek isn’t holding him, exactly, but he’s crushed against Stiles’ side, half on top of him, breathing into his shoulder in long draws that Stiles unconsciously matches. 

 

“You okay?” Derek finally mumbles. He sounds half asleep, but he pulls back to look Stiles over, check over the human like he does for Lydia, Danny, Stiles, even Allison after a battle. 

 

“Yeah,” Stiles rasps. His voice sounds like he’s been doing, well, exactly what he’s been doing. 

 

Derek giggles. It’s not a manly sound even a little. It’s catching, and Stiles breaks down too. They laugh until Stiles’ stomach hurts. 

 

“You really thought I was pregnant?” Stiles asks. 

 

Derek half-shrugs. “You’re powerful. It’s been baby stuff all the time lately. Allison had-” 

 

“Yeah, Scott told me.” Allison was late last week by like, two days, and Scott was convinced he was going to be a father before he’d ever even proposed. Stiles is one hundred percent sure Scott will drag him ring shopping over winter break. Finally.

 

“It happens in packs sometimes. Breeding instinct.” 

 

“Huh,” Stiles manages. His throat hurts. 

 

Derek rolls until he’s facing the ceiling. “When will your roommate be back?” he asks. 

 

Stiles reaches for his cell and texts Mikhail: _Hey, hooking up._

 

Mikhail responds: _Congrats_

 

Then: _Take tie off door by 12 or I come in anywy_

 

Stiles shows Derek the last one. 

 

“Good,” Derek says. He rolls away from Stiles and settles in. 

 

Is he seriously sleeping? Except that sounds good, sleeping with a packmate -- with his alpha -- back to back, watching out for each other. Stiles has questions along the lines of _Was that a one time thing? Was it serious? Are we dating now?_ But it’s not like he wants to sit down and talk about feelings. He closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of miscarriage. 
> 
> Undernegotiated kink, but it's Stiles' idea anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dome_epais](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dome_epais/pseuds/dome_epais) did an amazingly speedy beta on this chapter. Isn't she wonderful?

...“must be Derek,” Mikhail is saying when Stiles wakes up. 

 

Stiles keeps his eyes closed. This can’t be good. 

 

And then Derek decides to turn on the charm -- it’s _never_ not creepy -- and says, smile in his voice, “Yeah, man. Mikhail, right?” 

 

Stiles peeks. Derek’s sitting on the edge of the bed with the sheet covering him, leaving the ripped blanket to cover Stiles’ bare ass. 

 

Mikhail shakes Derek’s hand. 

 

“So,” Mikhail says, surprisingly calm for all the naked in the room, “Guess you two finally got together?” There’s a lot of judgement in those words, like: _have you finally decided to stop breaking Stiles’ heart_? 

 

Stiles tamps down the urge to pull his blanket over his head. 

 

“I guess so.”

 

Stiles knows Derek hates talking about personal things with strangers, but can’t he use a little inflection to help Stiles out here? Was that ‘I guess so’ like ‘Together for a given value of together where sex happens but that’s it’ or like ‘Yeah, we’re totally together now and we’ll skip off into the sunset as soon as my gorgeous dick is covered by something other than Stiles’ manky sheets’? 

 

“Look man, it’s none of my business, but you should know that Stiles-” Mikhail starts, but Stiles has heard enough. 

 

He pops up jack-in-the-box style. “Good morning!” Stiles flails, landing on the floor. “Noon. Lunch-time. Good lunch time. Derek, we should go. Eat. Go eat.” Fuck, he needs coffee. 

 

Derek watches him, smirking. Oh shit. 

 

“Why don’t you grab a shower first,” he says. 

 

“I don’t need-” 

 

“You need to lotion your tattoo,” Derek says. “And... gargle.” 

 

Wow, was that tactful? Was Derek trying to be tactful about his come breath? 

 

Stiles raises his hand to sniff-check. Morning breath _and_ come breath. His breath is putrid. 

 

“You maybe have a point,” Stiles admits. He stands, wrapping the remains of his blanket around his waist. “Okay, _I_ will go shower. But _you_ ,” he points at Derek, then Mikhail, then back to Derek for good measure, “no... nothing. Don’t say anything to each other. Silencio!” 

 

He runs into three people in the hall while he’s half naked with a blanket skirt. One of them high-fives him. 

 

 

 

 

Stiles feels like he’s restarted his game level when he steps out of the shower -- on one hand he has to go have the grown-up talk he failed miserably at, but on the other hand he’s fresh and ready for it. 

 

(He wears the stupid Scott sweater. At least his jeans are clean. Ish.) 

 

He stops being ready for it right around the time he meets Derek down in the commons and they walk to the car in utter freaking silence. Stiles is uncomfortably aware that Derek has watched porn of him. Porn where he was fucked and begged for it, came when his partner demanded, belly apparently full of werewolf baby. 

 

He’s also aware of how Derek’s thick fingers feel wrapped around his dick like they’re wrapped around the steering wheel now. 

 

As soon as he gets coffee in his system, he wants to tap that again. 

 

Derek pulls into the nearest Starbucks drive-thru. He didn’t even have to ask Google where it was. Suspicious. 

 

Stiles starts to say something, but the car in front of them moves and Derek rolls down his window and says one of the most beautiful phrases in the English language: 

 

“Quad shot breve caramel macchiato, extra caramel sauce on top. And...” he turns to Stiles, eyebrows raised. 

 

“Turkey sandwich. Two.” Stile is aware he’s looking at Derek like Robert Downey Jr. has decided to sit next to him, but. Coffee. There are probably little hearts in his eyes. 

 

“Two turkey sandwiches, one plain coffee.” 

 

While they wait for their order Stiles says, “Since you bought me coffee and lunch I won’t ask how you knew right where the Starbucks is. Stalker.” 

 

Derek gives him an annoyed glance, but doesn’t say anything. 

 

They park beside a city park to eat. Well, Derek eats. Stiles takes fifteen minutes to commune with his caffeine. The radio plays hipster music from the college station. 

 

“We should talk,” Derek says. 

 

“Or we could make out?” Stiles says. 

 

Derek considers this for a moment. “Talk,” he decides. “I have to be back in Beacon Hills by eight.” 

 

“Right, ‘cause it’s Saturday.” Stiles nods. “You know you don’t actually have to let Lydia pick a chickflick, right?” Lydia’s concession to being part of the pack is to Skype in once a week from Massachusetts Tech for a movie. She makes Danny and Jackson do it too. 

 

Stiles conveniently has study group during those hours. So sad. 

 

Derek glares. “We don’t always watch chickflicks.” 

 

“Yeah, sure, sell that to someone who’s buying,” Stiles says. “What did you watch last movie week? Sweet Home Alabama? Dirty Dancing?”

 

“We watched Batman Begins last week,” Derek says. 

 

“‘Cause Scott was freaking out about Allison?” Stiles asks. He sets his empty coffee down and reaches for the sandwich. 

 

Derek shrugs, smiling a little because not-so-deep down he’s a proud alpha wolfy. “It worked.” 

 

Stiles smiles back, fond, stupid. He’s not sure he’s got the right idea here but Derek bought him lunch. They’re in a park, sort of. That counts as a date, right? They’re dating? 

 

“Are we dating?” Stiles asks.

 

Derek takes a minute to answer. It’s been a mild December. Chilly, but no snow yet. The sun is warm through the windshield. Stiles makes some headway into his sandwich, counting as he chews instead of starting breathing exercises since Derek can hear those. 

 

“That’s an option,” Derek finally says, emotionless.

 

“Don’t do me any favors,” Stiles mutters. He looks down so he can pretend his emotions are private, wrapping the last part of the sandwich back up. He’s not hungry anymore. 

 

“I’m not?” Derek sounds confused. 

 

When Stiles glances up his eyebrows are emphasizing the confusion, but fuck that. 

 

“Derek,” Stiles explains patiently. Mostly patiently. “The entire world knows I have a giant crush on you.” He throws his arms apart to show what he means by giant. “My roommate knows, and I’ve never even talked to him about you. My grandma in Poland knows about you. She thinks your name is David, but she still knows about you. My crush on you can be seen from space, like the Great Wall of China, okay?” Stiles is aware he’s yelling now. “Look, considering I went from zero to gagging on you back there you can stop pretending not to know about it any time now. It’s not helping.” 

 

“Stiles....” Derek sighs. 

 

Stiles closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look. 

 

After a moment Derek rests his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. He slides it down to Stiles’ hand. 

 

Stiles opens his eyes to double check and yep, that’s Derek’s hand, short nails, thick fingers, hovering over his own. 

 

“I know,” Derek says. “I just. I don’t want you to regret anything. You were seventeen, then you were with that girl, then you started at Berkeley and you had another girlfriend, then,” he shrugs. “I’ve been... worried. About abusing my authority. I’m your alpha.” 

 

“Okay, first off,” Stiles ticks a finger, “I did _not_ have a giant crush on you at seventeen. It was a medium sized crush at best,” because at seventeen he’d still had some self-preservation instincts left and Derek was only just coming off his Grrr-I’m-the-Fucking-Alpha phase. “Secondly, Michelle and I were fuck buddies for two weeks, for prom, which I’m pretty sure you knew because Scott knew, so Isaac knew, so Erica knew. Thirdly... seriously? Like, okay, that’s a good excuse for maybe the first year after the packs joined, but technically Scott’s my alpha too and I’ve never had a problem shooting him down when he’s an idiot. It’s our thing. And it’s _our_ thing, too. Our whole,” he makes quoty fingers, “‘relationship’ since the first time you were creepy at me and Scott in the woods has me arguing with you. How is you being the alpha an excuse?” 

 

Derek’s almost smiling, like Stiles is making him happy, arguing all his points. He shrugs. 

 

“Got any more excuses, O Alpha?” 

 

“I’ll scare you off. I’m kind of... possessive.” 

 

Stiles snorts. “I’m a Stilinski. We’re hardcore monogamous. Go fish.” 

 

“Okay,” Derek rises to the challenge. “One,” he ticks off. Is he...? Yeah, he’s totally mocking Stiles. “Long distance relationships suck. Two: another perk of being the alpha is that I’m expected to provide stability -- stop laughing -- and part of that means dating me is basically marrying me. You’re still young. Three: you usually have no problem forcing me into uncomfortable conversations. I figured if you weren’t bringing it up, there had to be a good reason.” 

 

Turns out it hurts to roll his eyes this hard. “One: long distance relationships are better than no relationships, and that’s chickenshit. Two: I’ve had front row seats to Scott’s True Love Disney story. I figured out the long term thing ages ago, and if Erica and Boyd aren’t too young to figure out what they want, then fuck you, that’s a stupid reason. Three...” He trails off. 

 

“Yeah?” Derek raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Okay, there is no three. Except you could have given me a sign any time in the last, I don’t know, _year_ , that you were even a tiny bit interested. Um. Assuming you are.” 

 

“I am.” 

 

“Really?” Stiles can’t help his wide grin. He probably looks like a lunatic. 

 

“No, I’m here having this talk for ‘ _funsies_ ’.” Finger quotes. Derek is totally mocking him again. 

 

“Cool,” Stiles sighs. “I mean,” he clears his throat, “that’s cool.” He gives Derek a thumbs-up. 

 

Derek smiles at him, goofy and beautiful. 

 

“So,” Stiles says a minute later when they’re still smiling at each other. “Make out time?” 

 

Derek wraps a fist in the back of his sweater and pulls him across the console. Stiles swings his legs around to rest across Derek’s lap, wraps his hands around Derek’s shoulders, and leans in until he can feel Derek’s breath against his lips. 

 

Derek brushes their lips together, soft, easy, like he’s learning exactly what their lips feel like pressed together, like maybe he’s memorizing this for later. 

 

Stiles brushes back softly. It’s almost unbearable how sensitive his lips feel. This is kind of fun. Stiles laughs out his nose. 

 

Derek mock-scowls at him and steps it up, takes Stiles’ bottom lip between his own, then his top lip. Stiles gets a hand around the back of Derek’s neck to haul him in closer, pressing their chests together. It’s not even slightly comfortable and he’s getting a crick in his neck, but he doesn’t care because Derek is licking his lips, soft and warm, sexy and _sweet_ in a way that plays cats-cradle with Stiles’ insides. He’s not sure he can handle it, so he opens his mouth, lets Derek in. 

 

Derek licks into his mouth like he’s been waiting for the opportunity. He licks the back of Stiles’ teeth, strokes his tongue over Stiles’ while one hand finds Stiles’ nipple through his horrible, scratchy sweater. 

 

Stiles pulls back to breathe, and Derek keeps rubbing his nipple. 

 

“Can’t decide if I hate this thing,” Derek says. “Your nipples were poking at me the whole time.” He pinches lightly, and Stiles arches into it. “Distracting,” Derek finishes. 

 

“It’s itchy,” Stiles says, and goes in for another kiss. He nips lightly at Derek’s bottom lip, and Derek breathes hot and surprised against his own. Pleased. Stiles does it again. 

 

Derek slips both his hands up the back of Stiles’ sweater, palms resting warm and intimate against Stiles’ lower back. It’s nice. Feels shivery and oddly romantic. Especially when Stiles nips harder and Derek’s fingers tighten in response. 

 

Stiles pulls away and says, “You should touch me more.” 

 

Derek’s lips are red. He just watches Stiles, waiting for the kissing to resume. 

 

Stiles sweeps a thumb across those lips before he ducks back in, sucking at Derek’s mouth until Derek huffs a laugh through his nose, puff of warm air, and opens his mouth so Stiles can can suck on his tongue. Their cheeks brush together and Stiles is getting stubble burn but he has no fucks to give about that. 

 

“I vote,” Stiles gasps, “we get a hotel room. Your car is sexy as hell but it’s--” 

 

“Not enough room,” Derek agrees. He shoves Stiles’ back into his seat. “Put your seatbelt on.” 

 

 

 

 

Derek calls ahead for a hotel room on the edge of town. It feels a little like prom all over again, but Stiles doesn’t care. He’s hard, Derek’s hard, and they might be boyfriends now. Obviously the only logical thing to do is get naked together and fuck like bunnies. 

 

Stiles tries to remember this pure, untainted logic while Derek gets the room key from the desk clerk who has no doubts about why they want the room. She looks like she hates them. Whatever. She must be jealous of their sex life. Which, for the record, is going to be fantastic. Stiles has years of jerk off fantasies to play with, here. 

 

He doesn’t get much chance to do anything though because as soon as they’re in the room Derek says -- orders, “On the bed. Shoes off first,” and Stiles is obeying before he realizes he’s going to. He sprawls on the bed belly first, then rolls over to look at Derek. 

 

Who looks equal parts aroused and amused, in bare feet and his jeans. “You can take your socks off, too.” 

 

Stiles does. Then he starts on his sweater, but Derek’s there before he can finish, tailing his fingers in hot lines after the hem as it rises up his belly, chest, throat, until Derek gently takes over, easing it up and off. 

 

Derek pulls back to look at him. He strokes the back of his hand over Stiles’ cheeks, around his lips, down his throat. 

 

“Beard burn,” he says, and Stiles thinks it might be apologetic _and_ possessive. That’s a feat. 

 

Stiles shrugs. “Corizone cream. It’s a thing.” 

 

Derek gives him this _if you say so_ look. Clearly he’s never had razor bumps. Stupid werewolf. 

 

Derek trails down his throat to Stiles’ nipples. He stops there and stares for awhile. 

 

Stiles can feel how hard he is against his leg. 

 

“You’re pretty nipple-obsessed for a mostly gay dude,” Stiles says. His breath is speeding up under Derek’s gaze. 

 

“You have really nice nipples,” Derek returns. He swoops in for a closer look and startles Stiles by licking, hot and wet. 

 

“Puffy,” Derek continues. “Sensitive. I’ve decided I like the sweater. Don’t let Scott have it back.” 

 

“It is the ugliest sweater I’ve seen since _The Cosby Show_ ,” Stiles gasps. It’s navy and maroon zig-zag striped. “I resent being turned on by this sweater.” 

 

Derek ignores him in favor of palming Stiles’ dick through his jeans. 

 

“Wanted to see you like this,” Derek mutter. 

 

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, and hates himself. He sounds like he’s fishing for compliments. He _is_ fishing for compliments, because Derek’s been denying this thing between them for almost three years. The heel face turn is making his head spin. 

 

“Stiles.” Derek looks up, looks him in the eye. “ _Yeah_.” 

 

Stiles takes a good hard look and... okay. Okay, he can see it: Derek’s hands are firm and careful, the way his eyes follow Stiles’, hungry, how he’s breathing fast from... nothing. A hand over Stiles’ dick and a lick at a nipple and Derek looks mostly gone, like he’s been waiting for this not very patiently. 

 

Derek swipes a thumb over his cheek. “I’m not good at saying things,” he apologizes. 

 

“I’m a guy,” Stiles points out. “We’re good.”

 

Derek rewards him with a kiss to Stiles’ nipple.

 

“So, I can tell Mikhail you’re my boyfriend,” Stiles says, testing. 

 

“He’ll be glad to hear that,” Derek says wryly, like maybe Mikhail pulled out a shotgun and gave him a little speech about Stiles’ fragile feelings. 

 

“Oh my fuck,” Stiles rises to his elbows. “What did he tell you?” 

 

“Same thing Erica and Scott have been hinting at. Less subtle. Lift your hips.” Derek slides his jeans off. 

 

Stiles starts on Derek’s jeans. “Scott, subtle?” 

 

“For a Scott-value of subtle. Hold on,” Derek stands to get rid of his jeans. He’s back in a second to rest his weight on Stiles, carding his fingers through Stiles hair until Stiles’ head is tilted back and Derek can lick hot over Stiles’ adam’s apple. Then he says, “Hey, can I blow you?” 

 

“That is a definite, one hundred and ten percent yes. Feel free to assume in the future that any and all blow jobs would be welcome.” 

 

Derek pulls back and grins, and it’s wicked. 

 

“Can I fingerfuck you?” 

 

Stiles gulps. Nods. Needs a second for breathing, which is pointless because Derek is already down, licking hot and sweet, getting Stiles’ dick wet all over. 

 

He rubs two fingers up and down, fingertips following the grooves along Stiles’ shaft, sliding along the spit he’s already left there smoothly. It feels amazing, like getting a dick massage. Derek slides his fingers softly over the head of Stiles’ dick, testing for sensitivity. 

 

“I’m getting sexy doctor vibes here and it’s going to make my next visit uncomfortable,” Stiles confesses. 

 

Derek rolls his eyes and puts Stiles’ dick in his mouth. 

 

It’s hot. It’s really, really hot physically, like Derek just took a deep sip of hot coffee. Stiles whines and tries not to thrust up but then Derek starts sucking and he can’t help how his hips twitch. 

 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, just please keep-” 

 

Derek’s hands slide under his hips, cup them, and he holds Stiles still as he bobs on his dick, sucking more than licking but that’s fine, Stiles doesn’t need fancy tongue work. He needs that tight hot suction and his hips held tight so he doesn’t choke Derek. 

 

Derek’s lips are red around Stiles’ dick. His eyes locked on Stiles’ face like he needs to watch the effect he’s having, watch Stiles.

 

Stiles is sweating. He’s just getting to that place where everything is sweet methodical torture when Derek pulls off. Stiles tries to scrabble a few brain cells into coherency as he listens to Derek spit, but then Derek’s fingers skate over his asshole. 

 

Coherency is overrated. 

 

Derek’s first finger slips in easy. It’s that weird feeling of how thick his finger is warring with how much Stiles needs to be full. Derek’s finger just makes him feel how empty he is. 

 

Derek gives him time to clamp down, feel everything, let it roll through him. After a minute Derek slides his finger out and in firmly, just hard enough for Stiles to feel it, not hard enough to make him buck. He keeps it steady like that, not slow, not fast. 

 

Stiles clenches both fists in the sheets and lets his hips roll the tiny bit they can just so he can feel how Derek is holding him. He’s panting and whining, little throaty sounds. His toes curl and his nipples are peaked hard as Derek just keeps going with just one finger. 

 

Derek kisses the tip of Stiles’ dick wetly, pulls back to admit, “I watched the- I watched. He didn’t spend enough time fingering you. You love this.” 

 

“Oh wow, I can’t tell you how much I don’t want to think about Josh right now,” Stiles slurs. His back arches as Derek kisses the tip again, mouths at it. “Just... seriously, forget him. Sorry you had to see that.” 

 

“I’m not,” Derek murmurs. He pulls his finger out, swirls it around the rim of Stiles’ hole. Drives back in with two. “I’ve never seen anything hotter in my life.” He pumps those two fingers, slowing down. 

 

“That’s surprisingly calm of you, and if you’re feeling for my magic sparkly spot, up just a little- fuck!” 

 

Derek makes a contented rumbling sound deep in his chest. If Stiles were a saner man it would make his balls retreat. Instead it makes him shudder, and his dick throbs.

 

“I do want to tear Josh’s head off,” Derek says, sounding a hell of a lot more in control than he should. “But. Getting to watch you like that.” He adds more spit now that he knows where to press, dribbling it down to his hand which is hot in that way where Stiles is grossed out too. 

 

“We can-” Stiles starts, then loses track of what he was saying because Derek starts pumping his fingers again, gradually going faster. He shifts his hand from under Stiles’ hips until it’s lying on Stiles’ belly, under his dick which is just infuriating because it’s not enough friction to do anything except remind Stiles’ dick that touching is a thing that could potentially happen. 

 

Then he presses down. 

 

Stiles jerks hard, limbs spazzing. Derek’s pressing down right on his prostate, pressure from above steady but less immediate, pressure inside direct and rhythmic and Stiles can’t thrust into it at all, can’t fuck himself onto Derek’s fingers. He just has to stay still and take it. 

 

“Bastard. Fuck. Fuck,” he pants. He bucks against Derek’s hand but that just makes everything feel _more_ until it almost hurts, intense and wonderful. 

 

Derek speeds up. Now it’s fast, Stiles’ body rocking as Derek’s fingers fuck into him. The bed squeaks. Stiles grabs his own hair to just hang onto something because Derek is watching him, taking everything in, watching his fingers go in and out of Stiles. He watches how Stiles takes it, how his legs are wide as he can get them and he’s flushed all up his chest and throat. 

 

“You love being forced to be still like this,” Derek says, not surprised. “Holding still takes too much concentration. You’d hate to be tied down, though.” 

 

Stiles is mostly focussed on breathing, but he nods, grateful that Derek gets it. 

 

Derek spreads his fingers wide on Stiles’ belly, kneading softly, making Stiles’ world spin down to his prostate and Derek’s fingers fucking him. 

 

“Can I make you come like this?” Derek asks, all evil smile like he already knows the answer. 

 

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Stiles growls, and comes, Derek pounding it out of him until he’s almost crying, heaving for air. Derek’s eyes are dark and patient, like he’s taking notes for next time. 

 

“Okay,” Stiles gasps. “Okay, you bastard. Ten out of ten, will ride again. You should fuck me now.” 

 

“Don’t have any lube,” Derek says, eyes on where his fingers are still locked up tight. But he looks like he might not even care at this point. 

 

“There’s got to be. Shampoo? In the bathroom. Conditioner.” It’s not a pricey hotel but they’ve got to have those tiny bottles. 

 

“That sounds like a _great_ alternative,” Derek snarks, but Stiles can see right through him and Operation: Fuck Stiles is a go. 

 

And then Derek’s cell rings. 

 

“That’s Erica’s-” 

 

“Yeah, I set the pack ringtone-”

 

“She told me she wouldn’t interrupt so we could get our act-”

 

“Pick it up! Pick it up!”

 

Derek pulls his fingers out so fast it hurts a little, diving for his jeans. He frees his cell from his pocket and flips it open on the last ring. “Is it the baby?” he asks before Erica can get a word in. 

 

Stiles waits, listening. He’s naked. So is Derek, but Derek has that whole animal, at-one-with-my-wolf thing going on where he doesn’t look bare unless his dick is dangling in your face. 

 

“What do you mean Boyd’s gone?” Derek growls. 

 

Stiles can practically see Derek’s hackles go up. He scrambles for his shirt. “Put it on speaker!” 

 

“-mells funny, like that omega from last summer,” Isaac is saying. 

 

“It _is_ that omega,” Erica insists. 

 

“But we turned him over to the hunters,” Stiles says. He presses Derek’s jeans into his hands, motioning for him to put them on, and picks up his own pants. 

 

“Is that Stiles?” someone wonders in the background. It sounds like Allison. Which means Scott will be there too. He tosses Derek’s shoes towards him. 

 

“Look, we’re on our -- Derek put your _shoes on_. On our way. We’ll be there in two hours.” 

 

“Hour and a half. Hold on.” Derek covers the phone’s mouthpiece which seems useless with werewolves. 

 

“You can’t come. You have studying.” 

 

“Family emergency. This professor likes me, I can get an extension.” This will cost him... five percent? He’ll still make the dean’s list.

 

Derek looks like he’s going to argue but Allison says, “Derek, bring him. Erica’s....” 

 

“I’m _fine_!” Erica snaps, but it takes her a second. 

 

“Hang on, Catwoman,” Stiles says. “Batman and Robin are on their way!”

 

“That’s a little sexist, but I’ll let it go,” Erica says. “Just. Get here.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long, guys. RL kicked into overdrive. But this chapter is extra long, and there's just one more after this! 
> 
> Warnings at the end of the chapter, but please note that if you have any triggers concerning threats of violence, you should check them out. 
> 
> This is so incredibly jossed, and I'm not even going to attempt to make it blend with S3's canon because Boyd and Erica aren't dead, fuck that. Sadly, this means no Cora.

The needle doesn’t dip below 90. They’re silent, too worried to talk. 

 

It starts snowing just as they hit the Beacon Hills city limits. 

 

Derek frowns. “This will make it harder to track Boyd.”

 

“Part of my tattoo is for each of you,” Stiles says. “I can feel him. Don’t think he’s in danger.”

 

“How sure are you?” Derek asks. He looks a little impressed.

 

Stiles concentrates on the yellow star that represents Boyd. He can feel it, dimly, spooling energy and connection out. No sense of direction, just the feeling that that particular patch of skin is connected to Boyd, belongs to Boyd. It feels....

 

“He’s uncomfortable. Chained up? But he’s not panicking.”

 

“Panicking’s not really his thing,” Derek points out, so yeah, maybe not reassuring. Derek turns onto the lane for the Hale house. 

 

Erica’s on the veranda, swathed in an enormous white puffy jacket with a fur-lined hood. She looks like an anxious polar bear.

 

“Hey, Catwoman,” Stiles says. “The calvary’s arrived. How’s Junior?”

 

“She’s fine,” Erica dismisses. “Derek, promise me you’ll find him. Today. Not like last time.”

 

Last time was the alpha pack, right on the heels of Gerard Argent. It’d taken them weeks to get Boyd back from the alphas. 

 

Derek grabs her arms and holds her steady. “Erica, I promise. We’ll get him back. Soon.” He turns to Stiles. “Tell her.”

 

“I got inked,” Stiles says, spinning around so he can hook his sweater up. “My magic tattoo says he’s okay.”

 

“That’s not funny--” Erica starts, furious.

 

“No, no, you know I wouldn’t joke about this.” Stiles grabs her hand, squeezes tight like a promise. “He’s okay. Really. See the yellow star?”

 

She steps closer. “Yeah. It’s -- glowing?”

 

“How much?” Glowing isn’t good.

 

“Not much. I can barely tell.”

 

“So he’s barely in danger,” Stiles says. “If it was urgent I’d be in pain. Right now it’s just warm.”

 

Erica touches his Saturn tattoo with one finger. Stiles can’t feel it at all with his connection open like this. He wonders if Boyd can feel it, a little point of reassurance and love.

 

Allison bursts out the door with Isaac, Scott, and a small armory of assorted deadly weapons.

 

“We need to leave some of us behind with Erica,” she points out. “Last time the omega wanted her. He probably still does.”

 

Erica closes her eyes tight for a second. “I want to go with you,” she says. “But.” She opens her eyes and shakes her head, her lips pressed tightly together. Puffs of snow dot her hair, starting to fall more heavily. 

 

Allison lays a hand on her arm, and it’s a measure of how far they’ve come that Erica leans into her. “You need to stay safe right now.”

 

“I’ll stay with her,” Stiles offers. He wants to try something anyway. 

 

“One more,” Derek says. “Scott?”

 

“Okay,” Scott agrees.

 

“Set up a perimeter,” Derek starts, but Stiles shakes his head.

 

“I’ve got it. I just need Scott for the Twilight Howl and heavy lifting.”

 

“Dude,” Scott agrees. They bump fists.

 

Allison gives Scott a quick kiss and strides down the drive to her car, Isaac and Derek flanking her. Scott watches her go with a goofy smile.

 

Derek throws a last look over his shoulder as he climbs in the passenger seat.

 

“You too,” Stiles tells him.

 

They drive away.

 

“Huh. Looks like there’s been developments,” Erica says trying to tease him, but her heart isn’t in it.

 

“Yeeeeah,” Stiles scuffles his feet.

 

“Wow, don’t hold back any details there,” Erica says. She steps in close for a hug and Stiles gives her a strong squeeze. She rocks them back and forth, foot to foot. Then she buries her head in his chest and sniffs long and loud. 

 

“No time for a shower?” 

 

Stiles blushes, realizing exactly what she’s smelling on him. 

 

“Fucking finally,” Erica laughs. 

 

“You mean finally fucking!” Scott chortles. He slaps Stiles’ back hard enough to sting. 

 

“Everyone’s a comedian,” Stiles says, but he’s laughing. “I’ll take a shower if you can find me some clothes. Need to do something first though.”

 

Erica disappears into the house.

 

“Need any help?” Scott asks.

 

Stiles holds out his good wrist. “I need blood.”

 

“Stiles!” Scott yelps, backing up a step. 

 

“Not that much blood. Like, two ounces. Maybe three.” 

 

Scott frowns, forehead all scrunched with worry. “I’m staying with you. Do you need a bowl?” 

 

Stiles shakes his head. 

 

“Okay...” Scott lets his claws grow out and rests one over Stiles wrist. “You’re sure?” 

 

“I trust you, buddy,” Stiles says. 

 

Scott pierces his wrist with surgical delicacy. The blood wells up, and Stiles presses a finger from his free hand over the puncture. He starts with the rose bushes, scraping a toe in through the dead winter leaves so the blood drips onto gray dirt. He can feel his rune, not physically, just an awareness of its shape and placement. His brain goes to that place that feels like one long, held-in breath. 

 

Scott keeps pace as Stiles circles the yard. “Can I talk?” he whispers. 

 

Stiles nods, but doesn’t waste words, keeping his focus as he carefully drips a line of blood in the scrim of snow covering the ground. 

 

“So... I’m not sure what this does,” Scott says. “Is it like mountain ash? Because you know Derek keeps some of that in the kitchen.” 

 

Stiles shakes his head. They’re about a third of the way around now. He skirts the yew tree near Laura’s new grave. 

 

“Is this dangerous to you? Other than the blood.” 

 

“Tiring,” Stiles admits. He’s trying to figure out what to do about the hawthorn that edges the yard. On the one hand it’s a guardian tree. On the other hand since it’s used for purification it might work against trickery of his spell. 

 

Scott looks back and forth from him to the tree. 

 

Stiles refocusses. The blood flow is slowing down. If he circles outwards to include the hawthorn and all its little shoots he’ll have to ask Scott to reopen the wound. He stays inside the yard. 

 

When he reaches the rose bushes again Scott gives him a hopeful look. Stiles snorts, but holds out his wrist so Scott can slobber on it. 

 

“That’s weird, man,” he says, watching the blood clot. It won’t heal any faster after this, but werewolf spit helps a little. 

 

“You’re just as bad, man,” Scot says, which true enough. Co-kings of the overprotective little shits club. 

 

“Your tattoo’s still glowing,” Scott touches the back of his own neck. 

 

Stiles grins. “Check this out.” He drags Scott over the line. 

 

Scott startles visibly. “What happened to the house?” 

 

Where the house was is yards of forest, steadily collecting snow. It’s a repeating pattern if you look closely: that same old pine tree in three places, the crow nest at the edge of the yard repeating twice. There’s no breaks in the snowfall, the illusion seemless. 

 

“Magic!” Stiles holds his arms out like a magician and wiggles his eyebrows. “This way, he won’t even be able to find us.” 

 

Scott stares. “I know there’s blood, but I can’t smell it.”

 

Stiles grabs his arm and steps them back over the property line. And there’s the house again, Erica on the porch looking annoyed. 

 

“Why are you bleeding?” she demands. 

 

“I’m fine,” Stiles says. “Scott, tell her I’m fine.” 

 

“He’s insane,” Scott laughs. “He’s a genius.” He steps back and forth over the line, smiling. Scott isn’t always a fan of the whole werewolf life they live, but he loves watching Stiles’ magic. 

 

“Mountain ash in the kitchen?” Stiles asks. 

 

“Some, yeah.” 

 

Stiles stumbles inside and comes back out with the little baggy. He’s so tired, but mountain ash is easy for him by now. He closes his eyes and pours a steady ring inside the blood of the illusion spell, trying not to let the lines lap. When he finishes by the rose bushes Stiles sort of slumps until he’s sitting in an inch of snow, ass of his jeans soaking through. Scott’s there in an instant, slinging Stiles’ arm around his neck which is totally unnecessary because Stiles is _fine_. But since he’s a great friend he lets Scott get his worry on and lurch them up the verandah stairs towards the warm glow of Derek’s foyer. 

 

“Get inside,” Erica says. “Go take your shower.” She shoves a pair of sweatpants and a shirt at Stiles. 

 

 

 

 

When Stiles comes out of his boiling hot shower Erica and Scott have wrangled together nachos by sprinkling tortilla chips with a mix of cheeses and melting it in the microwave. They sit at the table and smother the chips in salsa, sour cream, and fried up chorizo. 

 

“Fuck, this is so good.” Erica licks grease from her fingers. “I haven’t had spicy food in months.” 

 

Stiles and Scott watch as she finishes off the chips. By unspoken agreement they’re just going to let her finish the plate. She’s hunched over it like a lioness on the Serengeti. 

 

Stiles tries not to pick at the bandage around his wrist. “We could watch a movie.” 

 

“ _Star Wars_ ,” Erica declares. She heaves herself to her feet. 

 

They snuggle up on the couch in front of Derek’s widescreen and start with _The Empire Strikes Back_. Erica’s feet end up on Scott’s lap. Stiles starts out with his head on Erica’s shoulder, but he wakes up with his head on the edge of her lap, her fingers in his hair, and Leia strangling Jabba the Hutt on mute. 

 

Scott is gone. 

 

“He’s doing a sniff-check of the yard,” Erica says. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Should ask you,” Stiles yawns. He smacks his lips. “Any news?” 

 

“Allison called. They have his scent.” 

 

“They okay?” He nudges up into her hand for more petting. His ear is snugged up to her belly, and it sounds like the ocean. Is the baby sleeping?

 

“Derek said not to worry,” Erica says dryly, “so I’m freaking out.” 

 

Stiles bites his lip and swallows down his own worry. “You know he once asked me to cut off his own arm, and he was all ‘It’ll be fine!’”

 

“You were so right. He is an idiot.”

 

That takes Stiles a moment, and then he blushes so hotly Erica can probably feel it through his hair. 

 

“Oh God, you watched the whole thing?” 

 

“Sweetie, I watched everything,” Erica laughs. “Thank you for that, by the way. Boyd was having a hard time keeping up with the pregnancy hormones and working full time.”

 

“ _Erica_!” Stiles tumbles off her lap. 

 

“I’m just kidding. Mostly.” 

 

“Oh. my. god,” Stiles says between his teeth. He rolls over on the floor and covers his face with his hands. 

 

“You’ve got _nothing_ to be ashamed of,” Erica teases, but she pauses at the end like she means it. 

 

“Did everyone watch?” Stiles asks, resigned to his fate of eternal teasing about this. Seriously, he’ll be a grandpa and Erica will bring this up. Probably in front of the grandkids. 

 

“Boyd and Isaac wouldn’t. Jackson looked physically ill. Scott said you were good, but I doubt he really watched.” 

 

“Ew, no,” Stiles agreed. 

 

“Not sure about Allison, Danny, or Lydia though,” Erica says, and laughs at Stiles’ misery. 

 

“Did Derek...?” 

 

Erica giggles. 

 

“All of them?” 

 

Erica giggles hard enough she starts snorting. 

 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” It’s nice here, on the floor. Stiles might stay here forever. 

 

“So you and Derek?” She nudges him with her toe.

 

“Yeah.” Stiles drops his hands and tucks them behind his head. 

 

“Derek and Stiles sitting in a tree!”

 

“F-U-C-K-I-N-G,” Stiles agrees. “Well, more like B-L-O-W-J-O-B.” 

 

“Are there still baby carriages? You really looked pregnant in that video. I thought we were going to be belly buddies.” Erica squirms on the couch until she’s lying lengthwise on her side, her head two feet above Stiles’, and their feet at the same end. It reminds Stiles of sleepovers at Scott’s as a kid, Stiles in his sleeping bag on the floor. 

 

The front door opens. “Why would he be pregnant?” Scott asks, not bothering to pretend he hadn’t heard them. “Guys can’t get pregnant.” He lies down on his belly next to Stiles, arms pillowing his head. 

 

Stiles sucks his lips in. He’s not touching that one. 

 

“Wait, can you get pregnant?” Scott asks. 

 

“Probably not?” Stiles winces. He doesn’t sound convincing to his own ears. 

 

“Oh fuck, you can get _pregnant_!” Erica yelps. 

 

“Maybe, if I wanted to,” Stiles admits. 

 

“That is so cool,” Scott says. 

 

Stiles pictures a pregnant Scott waddling around with Allison’s baby in him. It’s hilarious, but also kind of sweet. Stiles thinks he’ll be a good father someday. 

 

“So do you need birth control?” Scott asks. “Male birth control. Is that a- hey Stiles, your neck tattoo isn’t glowing anymore.” 

 

_Shit_. Frost scrapes down Stiles’ spine. That stupid hawthorne tree. The lines must have crossed by it, and the omega would have been able to step over both at once. 

 

He jerks to his feet. Scott’s already at the windows, crouched so he can’t be seen as he peers into the yard. 

 

Erica huddles down in front of the sofa. _What do we do?_ she mouths. They weren’t expecting an attack inside the house. All their sleepily drawn up battle strategies over the nachos were for an outside battle. 

 

Stiles gnaws at his lip for a moment, mind flickering through idea after idea, trying not to listen to the back of his head wailing about his own hubris because that’s not helpful right now. At the window Scott cranes his head one way, then the other, using all his senses. He turns to catch Stiles’ eye, shaking his head. No signs of the omega.

 

Erica’s claws come out and she makes to stand and run for the stairs, but Stiles catches her arm, mouths _Wait_. He motions for her to grab the highlighter Isaac left on the the coffee table next to the couch with his textbooks. Stiles uncaps it and carefully draws the same rune he has on his neck onto the back of Erica’s hand, like a club stamp. Then he jabs the marker against the puncture on his wrist until the blood starts up again. 

 

Erica hisses at him, frustrated at not understanding and annoyed at Stiles for hurting himself. The scent of a pack mate’s blood probably makes her hackles raise. But she stays still as he smears his blood on her cheeks, forehead, and chin. She’s much calmer about piercing her own skin, doesn’t care at all about the blood that drips onto the carpet as they mirror the process on Stiles. Then without any magical fanfare Stiles is suddenly looking across at _himself_. Erica tugs at a curl of blond hair coming from Stiles’ head, but her fingers pass right through. 

 

She shakes her head in disbelief and holds her hands in front of herself to see Stiles’ mole polkadotted arms and long fingers and chewed off nails. 

 

“This is creepy,” she whispers so lowly that Stiles mostly lip-reads it. 

 

Scott slinks back, keeping to the shadows. _Return of the Jedi_ is winding down, Luke on his knees before Emperor Palpatine, which gives them a little darkness. 

 

“I can still smell the difference,” he whispers. 

 

“Doesn’t matter. Erica’s gonna go downstairs to the cage and lock herself in. He’ll never get near her.” 

 

“Here,” Scott untucks a handgun from where he’s been hiding it down the back of his pants like a movie gangster. “Allison left it. Wolfsbane bullets.” 

 

Erica nods once, her face white. She holds the gun in front of her correctly, left hand cupping the right, right trigger finger at rest along the frame, safety switched off. Stiles guesses Allison’s been giving her lessons. She closes the basement door softly behind her. 

 

“Stay here,” Scott says. He moves back to the bay windows which are probably the best way to get in the house if you’re a weak omega and can’t break down the solid oak front door easily. The window fogs with Scott’s hot breath, and Stiles realizes that there’s snow, snow means footprints, and if the omega had even tried the front door Scott would be able to see them from this angle. Either the omega is still somewhere in the trees - 

 

Or there's windows in the study and he already knows about them,Stiles thinks, just as arms clamp over his chest like iron bars and he’s dragged against the smell of raw meat and a serious need to bathe. 

 

He makes a small sound. Scott spins around. 

 

“You can’t get to her fast enough,” the omega says. “I’ll slit her belly open before you get across the room.” 

 

Stiles pushes all his strength into the illusion, making Erica’s hair and body as real as possible, hoping the omega’s body odor and the drops of Erica’s blood on the carpet will mask Stiles’ scent for a few minutes. But he can’t fake her voice, so he’s stuck just staring at Scott as Scott stares at both of them, weighing his options. 

 

The omega is skinny, and his sleeves around Stiles-cum-Erica’s chest are greasy, like maybe he’s worn this coat all year without washing it. His claws are deadly sharp an inch above what he believes is Erica’s pregnant belly. If he tries to use his claws there, will the confusion give Scott enough time? 

 

Distraction, Stiles thinks. He needs to figure out a--

 

The window explodes. Boyd rolls through, eyes glowing golden like a storybook monster. The omega’s arms tighten until Stiles can’t breathe. Then there’s a thwiiiip sound and the omega lets him go. Stiles turns to see the omega -- crew cut and fine, angular features -- stumble away, an arrow in his throat. He watches the omega’s expression change as he realizes the arrow is poisoned, weakening him so quickly that he’s on his knees a second later as Boyd’s massive hands clamp around his head and the base of his neck and twist. 

 

Then a dead body slumps over Stiles’ feet and Stiles wants to puke. The illusion flickers out as he uses his concentration to not blow chunks. 

 

Allison steadies him with a hand on his arm. “You okay?” she asks, at the same time Boyd blurts, “Where’s Erica?” 

 

“Downstairs,” Scott says. “She’s safe.” 

 

Boyd is already halfway down the stairs. Isaac follow him. Allison pulls Stiles back, away from the corpse, but she’s watching Scott, checking him for injuries. Scott pulls them both into a hug, solid warmth of bodies and scent. Stiles sees Derek over Allison’s shoulder, face relieved. 

 

“You’re okay,” Derek demands, like if he says it like an order Stiles will _make_ it okay. 

 

“I’m okay. We’re all okay.” Stiles pulls away from Allison and Scott to bury his nose against Derek’s shoulder. “Oh, hey, I’m shaking. I’m totally fine, promise.” 

 

“Yeah?” Derek rocks a little. He runs a hand down Stiles’ chest and belly, making sure. 

 

“Really truly. Just. Exhausted. Did you see the-”

 

“You made my house disappear,” Derek says. 

 

“I’m awesome,” Stiles agrees. “You need to move that hawthorn bush.” 

 

“Okay?” 

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, as his body finally stops trembling and he starts feeling like he can breathe again. “Okay.” 

 

 

 

 

Clean up always takes longer than the action. By the time they’ve taken care of the body Stiles has floated past exhausted and into that shiny, slow place that feels like he’s underwater. His head snaps up when Erica kisses him full on the mouth. 

 

“That’s from Boyd, too,” she says. “Thank you, Batman.” 

 

Derek is right behind him, apparently willing to tolerate the kiss since everything’s been life and death tonight. 

 

“Anytime, Catwoman. Are you going to kiss Allison too?” 

 

She raises an eyebrow. “You missed that?” 

 

“Shit, I need to sleep.” Stiles rubs his eyes. They feel sawdusty. 

 

“Well I know where you’ll be sleeping tonight,” Erica singsongs. Her eyes are drooping. 

 

“Don’t think I missed whose clothes I’m wearing, you little.. thing. Tricky thing.” 

 

Erica’s smirk turns into a confused look, past being able to put that one together. Fair enough. She yawns. 

 

“How are you still awake?” Stiles asks, yawning back. 

 

“Heartburn,” she shrugs. “Go snuggle Alpha. He’s still in mother hen mode.” 

 

Stiles turns. Derek’s hovering over Boyd, who is perfectly fine. According to Isaac he’d been chained to a tree by the river with another omega guarding him. The plan had been to kill Boyd in front of Erica, which in the omega’s fantasy world would make Erica see the error of her Boyd-loving ways and fall into his arms, ready to be start a pack with him. 

 

Stiles wasn’t sure if this meant adopting Boyd’s kid as his own or getting rid of it, and he didn’t want to know. The part where Erica would have rather slit her own throat than stay with the omega didn’t seem to have occurred to him, but it didn’t last time either. There’s no accounting for crazy, Stiles guesses. He gonna remind Mikhail about the whole restraining order thing when he gets back. Obsessive stalkers are freaking him out. 

 

“Derek,” Erica says. “I want my husband now. We’re sleeping in our room here tonight. Go put Stiles to bed.” She shoves him Stiles way, and oh look! Stiles’ arms are full of lovely, Derek-scented wolfman. He’s been sweating. Probably from running. 

 

“You smell like you,” Stiles informs him, serious. “And dirt.” 

 

Derek sighs. “You’re all welcome to stay here tonight,” he tells the room at large. Then he ushers Stiles up the stairs and to his room, where there is a big, beautiful bed covered in dark blue blankets and deep pillows. Stiles kind of falls into the center of it and lets Derek bully him out of his shirt, which might have blood on it, Stiles isn’t sure. Derek pulls and tugs at him until he’s in a good snuggling position, and when he finishes pulling the blankets over both of them, Stiles mumbles, “I’m gonna get you off in the morning, your poor dick,” and falls asleep. 

 

 

 

 

Stiles wakes up with a hot hand on his chest, rising and falling as he breathes. Derek’s sleeping on his stomach, one ankle hooked over his and his sleep-puffy lips about three inches away. When he breathes out it tickles Stiles’ lips. 

 

Derek opens his eyes. They spend a minute just looking, and it’s wonderful. And sappy. 

 

“Let’s have sex now,” Stiles says. 

 

Derek’s lips twitch. “Before anyone can interrupt us,” he agrees. 

 

“Everyone’s gonna sleep in. I want you to fuck me.” 

 

It is fascinating to watch Derek’s eyes blow black like that at the suggestion. 

 

Derek rolls on top of him, heavy and perfect, and Stiles’ legs fall open until Derek is snugged up in the cradle of his hips. Derek rolls his hips and Stiles breaks out in sweat. 

 

Derek’s shirtless, abs and dark happy trail in the morning light, and Stiles gets to have this, all of it. He gasps as Derek rolls against him again and places a hand high on Derek’s chest, between his collar bones, sliding it down, slowly, until he reaches the band of Derek’s boxer briefs. 

 

Derek licks his lips, eyes locked on Stiles’. 

 

“I wanna give you a hickie,” Stiles says. “Right here,” he runs his thumb up and down the groove of Derek’s hip. 

 

“I could give you one,” Derek offers, because any hickies on him will heal too fast. 

 

Stiles laughs, giddy and warm and wanting. “Give me finger bruises, hold me down.” 

 

Derek leans forward and licks into Stiles’ mouth, slick and hot. He takes Stiles hands and laces their fingers together. They’re both hard, now, and when Derek lets him breathe, Stiles gasps, “Clothes. Let’s--” 

 

“Uh-uh.” Derek shakes his head. He draws back and drags his eyes down the length of Stiles pinned under him, appreciating the view. “You’re wearing my clothes.” 

 

“Okay, but I can put your clothes back on after you’ve fucked me,” Stiles reasons. He gets that Derek’s got that werewolf scent kink going on, but asking him to stay fully dressed is cruel. He wants Derek’s skin against his own, wants to come on Derek’s abs. 

 

“I’m not fucking you right now,” Derek murmurs, rolling his hips until blood rushes in Stiles ears and it takes him a moment to realize --

 

“The fuck?” Stiles can feel his heart breaking. Okay, not his heart, but if his dick wasn’t so hard right now it would look sad and defeated. 

 

“You’re not ready for it,” Derek says, like that’s reasonable. 

 

It’s not reasonable. “What the hell are you talking about? Trust me, I’m ready.” 

 

But Derek pulls away. All the way away. 

 

“Sit up,” he says. 

 

Stiles pouts, but does as directed. 

 

Derek slides behind him. So he can see the tattoo? Derek hooks his thumbs into the band of the sweats Stiles is wearing -- no underwear, either because Erica didn’t want to dig through Derek’s dainty underthings or because she thought going commando would be more appealing -- and tugs them down to Stiles’ knees. He rucks the shirt Stiles is wearing up to his armpits, and then he settles Stiles back against his chest, skin to skin. 

 

Stiles can feel Derek’s heartbeat against his tattoo. It makes something hot rush through him. 

 

“Touch yourself,” Derek says. He takes Stiles’ hand and licks, getting spit everywhere. 

 

“Seriously? We’re doing this when you could be fucking me?” Stiles asks, but he slides his hand down his chest and stomach to scratch at his pubes. 

 

Derek nips his shoulder. 

 

Stiles gives up on the idea of fucking right now and cicles his hand around his dick. He gives it a slow tug, just warming up, but Derek’s breath catches behind him. 

 

“I walked in on you once,” Derek says. His fingers are suddenly on Stiles’ nipples, pinching and petting. Stiles’ hips judder. Derek’s dick nestles against his ass, slipping between his cheeks on precome and sweat. 

 

“You. When?” Damn. That’s a fantasy he’s had more times than he can count. Derek’s eyes heavy on his skin as he jerks off for him. 

 

Derek rubs over and over his nipples and Stiles swears his nipples aren’t that sensitive. It never feels this good when he does that to himself. 

 

“Your senior year. You didn’t close your door all the way. No one else was home.” 

 

“I didn’t--” know. Realize you were there. “I might have been thinking about you.” Stiles grips harder, stripping his dick, but Derek’s hand wraps around his arm, slowing him down to a leisurely pace. 

 

Stiles whimpers, squirms. 

 

“If I give you a rule can you follow it?” Derek asks. 

 

“Like...” it takes Stiles a moment to marshal his thoughts into words. “A for-always rule? I don’t think I’m into those.” 

 

“Just for this time. Are you going to be good for me, Stiles?” 

 

He’s in Derek’s bed, lying back against Derek, with Derek’s clothes pulled down just enough to expose him, and Derek’s hands torturing his nipples as he jerks off to Derek’s direction. 

 

Stiles has to close his eyes for a minute. He nods, frantic. 

 

“Good,” Derek soothes. “The rule is no moving your hips. Not at all.” 

 

“Thing for you?” Stiles gasps, but he’s already frozen, keeping everything still for Derek, and Derek was right: it does take an enormous amount of concentration. 

 

“Keep moving your hand,” Derek says. “It’s a thing for you. I like the results, though. Your heart goes crazy.” He pinches Stiles’ nipples hard, no warning, and Stiles mewls as he fights to keep still like Derek told him to. 

 

“See?” Derek lets go. 

 

Stiles gulps in air, dizzy. Heat swirls through him in waves. He’s still pulling his dick steadily, much more slowly than he would if he were doing this by himself. 

 

Derek rubs against his ass, nowhere near his hole but it still makes Stiles _want_. 

 

“You were amazing, all spread out on your bed. Your blanket was kicked off, and your knees were up,” Derek says, voice an octave lower than usual, right in Stiles ear as he watches Stiles jerk off for him. 

 

“I could see your hole,” Derek says, and it occurs to Stiles that he’s not even whispering, just saying these things out loud even though the house is full of people with super hearing. Although the way Stiles whines when Derek lowers one hand to gently rub his palm against the head of Stiles’ dick probably tells them everything they need to know anyway. 

 

“You didn’t finger yourself,” Derek says. “I left before you came. But.” 

 

“But?” Stiles is getting close and it’s so hard to keep his hips from twitching as Derek pinches again, lets go, pinches, until his nipples hurt and his dick hurts and he wants to come but he needs something more, just a little more. 

 

“I used to jerk off, thinking about what you would look like. Your hole twitching when you came, empty.” 

 

Oh god, oh god. He’s there. He’s there, and he says, “Derek--” 

 

“Come,” Derek tells him, and Stiles keeps his hips still, is so very good, as his leg muscles and stomach tense and his dick splutters and then he comes everywhere, all over himself. 

 

Derek pushes him forward while he’s still shuddering. A pillow is shoved under his hips and he’s laid out on his belly, ass in the air, and Derek’s dribbling spit down his ass crack. Then Derek’s dick is there, head kissing his hole, and Stiles goes slutty for it, spreads his legs wide, feels his hole spasming, trying to get Derek’s cock inside. He’s moaning, drooling into the mattress. Needs it badly. 

 

Derek slides forwards, almost breaching him. 

 

“Please!” Stiles gasps. 

 

“Not yet.” Derek palms apart Stiles’ cheeks and watches as he slides his cock up and down Stiles’ ass, head catching the rim of his hole on each pass. 

 

“I’m going to come right here,” Derek says gently. He taps his cockhead against Stiles’ hole. 

 

“Can I -- please, can I move my hips?” Stiles asks. He’s not sure if the rule is over. He wants to arch back. 

 

“When you come,” Derek decides. 

 

Stiles wants to protest that he already came, but he realizes he’s still hard, leaking against the pillow, trembling. 

 

“Not a virgin,” he protests, because Derek could be fucking him right now. He can barely think of anything else, can barely control his hips. Every time Derek’s cockhead kisses his hole he wants to thrust back, feel Derek slide into him thick and perfect. 

 

Derek nuzzles along his throat until he finds Stiles’ pulse point. He bites, swift and vicious so it’ll bruise where everyone will see. Stiles spreads his fingers wide and keens, hips still because he’s being good. 

 

“Yeah, saw that,” Derek replies. It’s not -- Derek’s not petty, respects Stiles’ personal decisions, but Stiles has sudden flash of what it would have been like if Derek was the one to teach him how his body could open up. Derek would have been a horrible teacher, Stiles decides, too worried about hurting him, but the memory of the first time another man slipped a finger inside him makes Stiles clench, hole fluttering as Derek’s dick slides over it. Derek’s fingers yesterday, fucking him perfectly, and how it would feel if Derek lined up, pressed in, and fucked him. 

 

Stiles bites his lip and refuses to writhe. His face is wet with sweat. 

 

Derek kisses his back and shoulders, outlining the tattoo. “You’re doing so good,” he says. His hands grips Stiles’ waist, tight and calming, still thrusting against him. “These stars are us?” 

 

Stiles nods, keeping his damn hips still even though the slide of Derek’s lips along the edge of his ink has him clenching tight, electricity jerking through him. His insides feel syrupy with need. He’d be so open for Derek.

 

“Which one is me?” Derek asks. He paused with his cock resting against Stiles’ hole, and then Stiles hears a familiar sound and realizes Derek’s jerking off, dick pressed against him. He cranes his head back to look, to see Derek’s hand on his dick, but it’s a bad angle.

 

“Jupiter.” Stiles slurs, drunk on heat. 

 

Derek pushes his head down, hand gentle on the base of his neck like the direction is for Stiles’ sake. He bends over Stiles until he’s breathing hot over the line of stars, one, two, three, four... five. He licks. 

 

Stiles wails. It’s several magnitudes past intense, feeling Derek and himself at the same time, like jumping into fire. Derek comes, seed splashing hot against where Stiles aches and Stiles jerks and empties against the pillow, hips finally free to move. He humps back against Derek, still wanting him inside even as the orgasm fades and leaves him wrung out, overdone. 

 

Stiles sort of loses the plot for a few minutes, world narrowing down to breathing. Derek leaves him alone, and if he had a spare brain cell he’d be grateful. Then a hand comes up to rest on his lower back, sliding down to part his cheeks and -- Derek is looking at where he came all over Stiles’ ass. 

 

Oh, Jesus. Another aftershock runs through him. It takes the last of his fuzziness and he tips straight into needing a nap. 

 

“Okay?” Derek asks. He rubs one finger up and down his mess, lingering over Stiles’ hole but not stroking. 

 

“I am dead now,” Stiles decides. “Bury me next to my mother. Make sure you cry at my funeral.” 

 

“Hilarious.” Derek slaps his ass. He’s always liked Stiles’ black humor. 

 

Stiles groans as he rolls over to lie on his back. “Get over here. Bring the pillows.” 

 

Derek arranges them again, pillows under their heads and a sheet pulled up. They lie with their feet against where Derek’s headboard would be, if he had a headboard. 

 

Stiles drifts for a while, catnapping. Whenever he opens his eyes Derek’s eyes are closed, but Stiles can tell he’s awake. He rubs his thumb against Stiles’ shoulder where his hand rests.

 

“Why’d you go to Beth first? You could have called me,” Stiles murmurs.

 

“Wanted to find Josh. I figured if you were with him I’d leave.” Derek cracks one eye open. He looks like a big cat dozing in the sunlight. 

 

“And if I wasn’t? You thought he was my baby daddy. You were gonna do what, claw-tip wedding?”

 

Derek takes a second. He rubs his mouth against Stiles’ shoulder. “I don’t know.”

 

“Derek.” Stiles slides a hand into Derek’s hair and tips his head up to meet Stiles’ gaze.

 

“Claw-tip through his trachea sounded good,” Derek admits.

 

He looks... ashamed. Stiles gets it: on the one hand it’s a little tiny thrilling bit amazing that Derek was that jealous, but mostly he’s... alarmed? No, the alarm has been all shocked out of him by this point. He’s just aware that Derek’s violent side is alarming.

 

He scrubs his fingers through Derek’s hair, gives him a moment.

 

“You probably wouldn’t have,” Stiles says, finally.

 

Derek shrugs. “No,” he admits. “I’m too old for teenage dramatics.”

 

“That did not stop you in your early twenties, dude,” Stiles laughs. 

 

“Shut up. You’re not a paragon of maturity yourself,” Derek says. He sounds amused, but Stiles suddenly wonders if he was being mean. 

 

“Hey,” he says. “I like that you're a real boy now. Gets me all a-flutter.” 

 

“I’ll get you all a-flutter,” Derek says, eyes laughing. 

 

“Derek.” Stiles shakes his head, sadly. “That doesn't even make sense.” He bites his lip against laughing. 

 

“Fuck you.” Derek smacks his chest. 

 

“ _Please_ ,” Stiles says. “What is with your unnatural reluctance to fuck my ass?” 

 

There’s a knock on the door. “Hey, guys?” Isaac calls. “We made pancakes. You should probably come out now. Erica says everyone should get down here.” 

 

“We’re on our way,” Derek answers, probably directly to Erica. No one ever shouts in Derek’s house except sometimes Stiles, who grew up in a family that hollered from the other room rather than walk a few extra steps. He likes the difference, though. It makes everything feel peaceful. 

 

“Don’t think you’re getting out of answering that,” Stiles warns, but he follows Derek into his bathroom for a washcloth and warm water. He’s still in Derek’s clothes, but it’s not like everyone doesn’t know what they were doing anyway. 

 

Erica winks at Stiles when they come down, and Isaac starts a slow clap which Boyd joins in. When Stiles turns around Derek is blushing. It’s a thing of beauty, and Stiles points and laughs. 

 

“You should eat quickly,” Erica says. 

 

Allison stumbles in and heads for the coffee machine like a good little caffeine addict. Stiles is next in line. 

 

Scott, who weirdly can take or leave coffe like that’s a valid life choice, pours syrups on a stack of pancakes and is already shoving a forkful in his mouth as he asks, “Whyzat?” 

 

“Oh, you know,” Erica says, voice suddenly tight, knuckles going white where she’s holding Boyd’s hand. “Nothing big. The baby’s coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wonders if the omega's plan includes forcing Erica to miscarry. The omega is a violent stalker, with all that implies.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: the miracle of birth
> 
> I watched a 30 minute vid of a live birth for this chapter guys. There are things you cannot unsee. Although on the plus side I now have some informed opinions. Mostly they boil down to: if I ever have a baby like fuck am I lying on my back while doing it. 
> 
> The last chapter is on its way.

 

 

They’ve talked about this. There have been pack emails and Skype sessions. Everyone within driving distance has a duty, and a second to take over that duty. Derek -- and Stiles is never going to stop laughing about this -- has a _color-coded timetable_ prepared. Mrs. McCall had to ask Derek to stop sending her daily updates because, really, weekly was fine. 

Stiles loves his pack. 

The point is, they’re ready. They are fully prepared for the miracle of life. They know what they’re doing. 

 

 

 

Birth is the most grotesquely unnatural thing Stiles has ever seen, and he’s including the time he saw someone’s guts spill out as they were cut in half. It’s freaking him out. 

Erica grunts, face werewolfy, one hand wrapped around Boyd’s wrist so hard Stiles is pretty sure something has snapped, one around Derek’s shoulder as they help keep her balance. Her arms are wound through straps suspended from hooks in their bedroom ceiling in the Hale house. Erica crouches, half standing and half squatting, with Deaton beneath her while Mrs. McCall stands behind her, petting Erica’s hair and keeping an eye on the vital signs monitor. 

A bright blue tarp covers Derek’s hardwood floor which is good because there’s water and a little blood below where Erica squats. It smells musty and earth-y in a way that to Stiles feels like magic. His whole body is tingling with magic, tattoo pulsing with his heartbeat. It’s like a runner’s high.

Deaton puts his hand up beneath the hospital gown that isn’t doing much to preserve Erica’s modesty and... okay, Stiles is used to thinking of vaginas as sexy, but that’s not sexy, not even a little. Deaton run the wires he just stuck in there to another monitor and after a second the ebb and flow of Erica’s heartbeat as she rides through contractions is joined by a hummingbird flutter. 

It takes Stiles a second to realize that’s the baby’s heartbeat. 

Derek catches his eye. “It’s fine. It’s always that fast,” he says. Stiles relaxes, but only a little, because Erica starts shivering like she has a fever. 

“Sick!” Erica gasps. “Gonna be sick. Isaac-” 

Isaac takes a second to realize what Erica means, and Stiles grabs the banana shaped metal bowl Mrs. McCall brought and gets it under Erica’s chin just as she pukes chocolate chip pancakes. 

“Sorry,” Isaac mumbles, looking away. But that’s fine. Stiles used to do this when his mom--. Anyway, he knows how to do this. 

“At least it came out that end,” Erica says. She smiles, pretty eyes tired but steady, and Stiles has never been more awed by her. She’s amazing. 

He’s holding a bowl of puke. “Um,” he says. “Should I... what do I do with this?” The nurses always took care of this. He looks back at the others. 

Allison stands to one side clutching a tiny pink hat and a receiving blanket, eyes locked on Erica. She doesn’t bother glancing at Stiles, concentration on her mission. Scott shrugs and motions towards the bathroom. Except then Erica’s next contraction hits and there’s blood dripping down her legs. A lot of blood. 

“Oh God,” Stiles says. He sets the puke bowl down and rushes forwards with the knotted yarrow shamble for Stiles to place any negative energy he draws out. That’s his job: emergency magic. 

He drops to the floor next to Deaton, ready to... something. He’s not sure what. But Deaton says, “This is a perfectly normal amount of blood, Stiles,” calm and steady as ever. Stiles thinks if Deaton’s house was on fire Deaton would calmly gather a few items and stroll out, no fuss, no worry. He’s clearly insane. 

Stiles gestures in disbelief at the blood dripping down Erica’s legs and onto the floor horror film fashion. Deaton ignores him. 

“You’re fully dilated,” he tells Erica. “You can start pushing.” 

Erica grits out a sound. Then another. Then her little grunts draw out into a full-lunged howl, so eery the hairs stand up on Stiles’ neck and arms. Boyd joins her half-way through, drawing her pain in dark lines up his arms, and the howl becomes a kind of song. It’d be hilariously new age and touchy-feely under other circumstances, but right now it brings a lump to Stiles’ throat. 

He glances away. Scott is blinking back tears. too. Oh good. Stiles isn’t the only overly emotional loser in the room. 

“You’re doing so good, sweetie,” Mrs. McCall murmurs when that contraction subsides. 

_Doing well_ Stiles thinks hysterically because ADHD means the peanut gallery of his brain is a 24/7 show. Then he gets annoyed for being distracted because important things are happening, Erica’s _giving birth_. Stiles can’t afford to lose his concentration. Still, he darts a glance towards Derek who is focussed like a laser, riveted on Erica as he holds her up. His forehead is pinched in, shoulders tense. 

Stiles catches his eye and gives Derek a brave smile, as reassuring as he can get. This isn’t another bad thing in the Greek tragedy that is Derek’s life. Stiles won’t let it be. Stiles’ whole being is focussed on willing the birth to go well, the baby to be healthy, Erica to be okay, his pack to stay strong and wonderful and _alive_ , so alive. 

“Almost crowning,” Deaton says. “Here we go.” 

Erica sucks air in through her nose and nods, like _let’s do this_. More howling. 

“Here’s the head,” Deaton announces. 

Stiles is right there watching as the head slowly emerges until there’s a little person with her head upside down peaking out of Erica. The baby’s eyes blink open for a moment. They’re gray-blue, and looks she looks _annoyed_. 

Stiles loves her. 

Erica howls again and everyone makes soothing, encouraging sounds except for Boyd who is suddenly down next to Stiles cheering like he’s at a lacross game, arms in a victory V. The shoulders clear, and then the rest of her just kind of slithers out. Stiles has a heart-stopping moment where he thinks Deaton isn’t going to catch her fast enough, but Deaton easily shifts his hold so that the baby is nestled in his arms, ugly, bloody, purple-ish, and _beautiful_. She makes these terrifying mewls that ping every instinct Stiles has that there’s something _wrong, make the baby okay_ , but she’s fine, perfectly healthy. Jesus, is that what newborns sound like?

“Oh my God,” Boyd breathes, enchanted. “Oh my God, Erica, we made a person.” Stiles is watching him fall in love. 

Allison marches forward to use a soft, damp cloth to clean the baby. She helps tie off the umbilical cord and then swaddles the baby up snug in the receiving blanket like maybe she’s been practicing on dolls, serious and concentrating. She puts the cap on the baby and then nods firmly, duty fulfilled. 

Then she stops and smiles, heart obviously melting. “Ready to meet your mommy?” 

Erica lurches to one side as she begins to unhook her arms. Derek tries to steady her but the angle is awkward and Erica is giddy with exhaustion. She manages to unhook her other arm while Derek shifts her weight back against him, but Erica overbalances. There’s a Looney Toons moment where Stiles sees Derek realize what’s happening too late as Erica crashes down her her knees in the mess.

Erica barely seems to notice, all her attention on the baby. She makes grabby hands at her husband. Boyd looks up when she hits the ground, and a blurry werewolf second later Erica’s cradled against Boyd’s chest, Erica sagging into his support and baby held between them. The reverent way she takes the baby is all kinds of heart warming and Lifetime movie. 

“Lauren,” she coos. “Hello, Lauren. I’m your mommy.” They sit there in the middle of the blue tarp, mother, father, and baby, like a Nativity Scene except the wonder and serenity on Erica’s face beats any Mother Mary Stiles has ever seen. 

Stiles looks away. 

“Stiles,” Deaton calls. 

Stiles wipes his eyes on his sleeve, and holds out his hands to inspect the afterbirth. It makes Stiles gag, but he dutifully slows his breathing down to feel it. It feels... like a building that’s structurally sound. He blinks into focus and nods at Deaton. 

“Ah. Successful delivery, then,” Deaton says. He plucks the placenta from Stiles’ hands.

Stiles tips back until he’s sitting on his ass in the middle of the room next to a metal banana shaped bowl of puke and a small pool of bloody water, his hands gorey from the placenta, watching as Mrs. McCall massages Erica’s abdomen and cleans her up, and the rest of the pack coos over glimpses of the baby even though Erica is holding her too closely for anyone to really see more than her little behatted head and one tiny brown hand. 

It’s the best moment of his life. 

 

 

 

Stiles stumbles out of Erica and Boyd’s bedroom in a daze and lowers himself into a chair in the kitchen. 

“Boyd’s on the phone with Mrs. Reyes,” Scott announces. “Their family will be here soon.” 

That was the compromise: Erica gave birth at the Hale house, but then the pack cleared out so the new grandparents and aunties could meet baby Lauren. As it was Erica had to pretend that the birth had just all happened so fast, I’m so sorry Mom there wasn’t any time to call, look new grandbaby don’t be mad! 

They seriously needed to talk with their families, Stiles thought. Preferably before one of the grandmas babysat their werewolf granddaughter. 

“We should go,” Derek says reluctantly. 

Stiles knows that feeling. It feels wrong to leave baby Lauren now that they just finally met her. Stiles spent ten minutes holding her, marveling at her tic-tac sized toes, her sweet baby scent. But she’ll still be here later. Stiles can check on her whenever he needs to while he’s here, and when he’s back at Berkeley he’ll get a new tattoo, a little hummingbird with a brilliantly violet throat, like a National Geographic photo he once saw. 

“What time is it?” Allison asks. 

Isaac cranes his head around to see the microwave clock. “Three-thirty.”

“That’s pretty close to five,” Allison says. 

“Practically the same thing,” Scott agrees. 

Derek looks confused. Werewolves can get drunk, eventually. Stiles is willing to bet Derek hasn’t tried drinking since he became the alpha. 

“Drinking,” Stiles sways into his shoulder for a moment, trying not to laugh. “We’re going out to celebrate.” 

Derek smiles at him, so open and happy he looks surprised at himself, that he’s capable of being so happy. Stiles has to kiss him the same way he had coo at the baby when he held her, instinct and overwhelming love in perfect agreement. 

 

 

 

Stiles doesn’t mean to get so drunk, but it’s been a long time since he’s been able to relax with his pack and enjoy himself. Isaac kind of smirks and says something about how Allison is outdrinking him, and the next thing he knows Stiles is matching Allison shot for shot which is just stupid. Allison is good at anything she puts her hand to, and drinking is no exception. It’s like that scene in _Indian Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Arc_. Allison owns him. 

“Isaac,” Stiles tells Derek, doing his best to stumble out of the bar on his own two feet. He mostly succeeds. “He’s evil. He’s.” Stiles stops to consider his words. Where was he going with that one?

“It’s revenge for waking him up this morning with sex sounds,” Derek says. “If you and Allison are both too drunk for sex he gets a good night’s rest.” 

Stiles points at Derek. “That _rhymes_!” he says, impressed. 

“It really doesn’t.” Derek laughs at him, but then he takes Stiles home, makes him drink a whole glass of water, and tucks him into his own bed, so Stiles decides not to hold the laughing against him. Especially when Derek crawls in after him and tucks his head into Stiles’ shoulder, sweet and sleepy, still smiling about the baby. 

“This is an awesome day,” Stiles informs him. 

“Hmm,” Derek agrees. 

“I have so much studying to do tomorrow.” Depressing thought. It’s... is it Saturday or Sunday? His first final is Monday afternoon.

“You can use my room,” Derek says. “Or drive back early with Allison. Let’s figure it out in the morning.” 

 

 

 

He drives back early with Allison, which sucks because he doesn’t even have time to get in a morning quickie before kissing Derek goodbye. 

“Thanks for this,” he tells Allison, since she’ll be driving almost an hour out of her way to drop him off. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Actually. I kind of offered to drive back early on purpose.”

“Sick of baby stuff?” 

“Maybe a little?” She shakes her head. “It’s weird when your friends start having kids. When did we become adults?” 

“You didn’t get your adulthood certificate in the mail either?” Stiles says. “Man, I keep telling Scott mine will come any day now.” 

She bites her lip. “Do you think Scott,” she starts. “I mean, he really did grow up in high school. He’s not a kid anymore.” 

“Yeah.” Scott’s not the same person he was when Peter bit him, that’s for sure. It’s kinda scary how Stiles sees a real, grown-up adult when he looks at his best friend now. 

“And I know we’re both still in college, and we agreed to put off talking about our future until we graduated,” Allison continues. 

Stiles grins. Oh, he thinks he knows where this is going. 

“But that isn’t practical,” Allison barrels on like maybe she’s written a speech in her head. “Relationships don’t work like that. They have their own timeline.” 

“Completely understandable,” It totally is. She’s going to ask him....

“So, do you think-” She clears her throat. “If I asked Scott to marry me-”

“Yes!” Stiles crows. 

“Really?” Allison is all pink and cautiously happy. 

“Over break, right? Are you going to get him a ring?” 

“Do you think he’d like that?” 

“ _Yes_.” Scott will be over the moon. He’ll show the ring off to everyone. Twice. “He’ll love it,” Stiles assures her. 

Allison tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, blushing and smiling. 

 

 

 

Stiles runs out of his ADHD meds during finals. He rattles the last pill in the bottle and contemplates scoring some Adderall on campus rather than taking the hour-and-change round trip to the drugstore to refill his prescription since campus medical won’t be able to refill it before the next day. Two phone calls and he could be hooked up with enough Adderall to last him through Saturday. He could use the extra hour to sleep. 

Stiles sighs and stuffs his feet into his shoes. He’s got these shoes broken in just right, doesn’t need to mess around with the laces. 

Mikhail looks up, eyebrows raised.

“Gotta run down to the drugstore,” Stiles says. 

“I would slaughter a village for some Little Debbies,” Mikhail informs him gravely. 

“You got it.” 

Stiles trudges down to the student parking, which is nowhere near his dorm. It still hasn’t snowed, but it’s cold enough for frost dragon breath, and he amuses himself doing Gandalf-y smoke tricks. They don’t require any charms or artefacts, just force of will and concentration, belief that he _can_. 

There’s someone waiting at his car. 

Stiles stops, waiting. Ages ago, before they could even hold a civil conversation, Derek taught him and Scott the art of not being noticed: rather than staying stock still and thinking _don’t see me_ , you stay loose and wait to be noticed. The human brain doesn’t catch that, skims right over it, but it latches onto something desperate and unnaturally still, predator instinct. 

“Even rabbits know that,” Derek explained. ‘They move their noses while they wait.”

Stiles isn’t much of a predator, but he’s not prey either. He waits, limbs loose, breathing through his nose, and watches. 

It’s about five o’clock, and the sun is setting, casting long shadows. Student parking is supposed to be well-lit to minimize attacks, and there are emergency sirens every fifty feet. But the two nearest street lights are out, and Stiles knows exactly how useless it is to try to outrun a werewolf, or several other kinds of people. 

Except he’s not really worried because now that he’s concentrating, he thinks he knows who this is. 

“Adam, man, it’s kind of freaky to lie in wait at someone’s car. In the dark. Alone,” Stiles explains. 

Adam blinks at him, eyes riveted to, yep, Stiles’ belly. “I wasn’t sure,” he said. “Right. Sometimes I’m, I get. I get confused.”

They’re having two different conversations, Stiles thinks. He claps Adam’s shoulder, not sure what to say. 

“You needed a new tattoo,” Adam says. “Something for a baby.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles grins. “My packmates, Erica and Boyd, they had a baby. Lauren.” Stiles’ inbox has been blowing up with mass emails of new baby pics everyday, and he loves it. Stiles uses them as his laptop background. It’s only been three days, but Lauren’s already one thousand percent cuter than she was when she was born. Her head looks more head-shaped, and her skin looks healthy and soft. 

“Packmates,” Adam agrees, vaguely. 

There’s a pause. 

“I was just about to run an errand,” Stiles says. He’s not sure how Adam even got on campus. 

“Your Adderall,” Adam nods. He holds up a white paper bag, receipt stapled to it. 

Creeeeepy. And cool. 

“Remind me never to make an enemy of you,” Stiles says. He opens the bag to check and yep, his Adderall, in his name, with his signature. Adam probably has a tattoo exactly like his own illusion mark. 

When he glances up Adam is across the parking lot, wandering towards Stiles’ dorm. Stiles jogs to catch up. 

“What’s in the bag?” he asks, nodding at Adam’s attache case. It’s an old, beat up leather thing that probably has its own opinions on what whiskey it can legally drink. Actually, since it’s Adam, it might have feet and wander around, too. 

Stiles puts a little distance between them, just in case. 

“Tattoo guns, ink, alcohol swabs, distilled water, a clip-on lamp, and an extension cord,” Adam responds clearly, no confusion. 

“Okay.” Stiles pull out his wallet. He’s got two twenties and a few ones. “We’ll have to stop at an ATM.” 

“Nah, this is for the favor,” Adam says. “So I won’t owe you.” 

“The favor.” 

“Next year,” Adam nods. 

Stiles opens his mouth, thinks for a moment, and then closes it. 

 

 

 

A laurel plant would make sense since that’s where the name Lauren comes from, but Stiles still has the image of a hummingbird in his mind so that’s what Adam does. It’s on his forearm, all dark gray and brilliant violet, with a touch of dark sage green. 

Mikhail watches for a while. He was pretty chill about Stiles’ tattoo artist showing up for a house call with no warning. 

“I’ve accepted that you’re the protagonist of an indie movie and weird things just happen around you,” he says, and Stiles isn’t sure how much he’s joking. 

“Man, finals are getting to me,” Mikhail mutters. “The colors keep moving. Like, shimmering.” 

“Catch a nap, man,” Stiles says. “I’ll wake you up when we’re done.” 

For Stiles this is better than a nap. It’s like guided meditation. He’s at peace, at rest, totally inhabiting the waiting space. 

It’s over pretty quickly from Stiles’ perspective, but when he checks the clock it’s been hours. He wakes Mikhail up while Adam packs everything away. 

“You need a ride?” he asks Adam while Mikhail opens one of his god-awful energy drinks. Not normal energy drinks, like Redbull or an esspresso. No, these are the evil green of spinach and smell like healthiness and zinc-y aftertaste. They make Stiles gag, so he keeps his eyes on Adam. 

Adam shrugs. 

Stiles bites his lip. He’s not sure Adam could even give him directions to his own home. Probably easier to just drive him to his studio, except the ferries will close before Stiles can return. 

“You got any friends this side of the bay?” 

“Oh! Yeah, my girlfriend lives here,” Adam says. “If she’s still my girlfriend. I forgot our anniversary.” 

Stiles leaves that one alone in favor of using Adam’s phone to call his maybe-girlfriend. She lives in town, so Stiles drives Adam over. 

“Don’t forget to call your alpha,” Adam says as he leaves. “He’d gonna help me with that robbery.” 

Stiles wonders if it wouldn’t be easier to just prevent the robbery in the first place, but he watches to make sure Adam gets inside safely and drives off without asking.

 

 

 

When Stiles gets back to his dorm Mikhail’s left a note that he’s gone down to the all-night diner to study since he never got his Little Debbies. Stiles uses the privacy to Skype Derek. It’s about nine thirty, and Derek’s already on. They Skyped for fifteen minutes the night Stiles returned, during a study break. Was Derek on just in case?

“I know that look,” Derek says, face closed off. “Either you got laid, or you got a new tattoo. I’m honestly not sure which will make me angrier. We’ve talked about this.” 

“Oh, you’re paying for it,” Stiles says. “You’re going to help Adam with a robbery sometime next year.”

“Oh. Kay.” Derek looks confused, which is good. Stiles shouldn't be the only one weirded out here. 

He tells Derek about his night. It’s possible he gets sidetracked on Adam’s general Adamness, the belly staring and the precog -- is it precog? Is he living all out of order like the Doctor? Except not the Doctor because there’s no true time travel in magic with like, time-space coordinates, so much as reset buttons or reincarnation or... oh you know what, Merlin. That’s totally a precedent, even though Stiles has never heard anyone in the magical community talk about Merlin as an actual historical person so much as a collection of people, an amalgam of magicians during a certain time period who played similar roles.... Now he’s back to the Doctor. 

Stiles realizes he’s been rambling. Derek’s smiling at him faintly, nodding along but not really listening. 

“You should ask Deaton about the Merlin thing,” Derek says. 

Or maybe he was listening. 

“It could explain a lot about Adam,” he continues. “Hey, can I see the tattoo?” 

Stiles shakes his head. “Tomorrow. I don’t want to mess around with the bandages right now.” Because sometimes when he’s lying awake at night freaking out about everything the way Derek’s old self-worth issues make the list Stiles adds,“You know I’d never cheat on you, right? That’s not something I’d ever do. If I look like I just got laid it’s because I’ve spent some quality time with my hand, probably thinking about you, handsome.” He winks, cheeky. 

Derek blushes. He looks really happy about Stiles jerking off thinking about him, the goober. 

Stiles’ heart does this floaty backflip thing he will never admit to, and he opens his mouth without thinking. What comes out is: “I’m always thinking about you.” 

Derek looks away, bashful or something. “Yeah,” he says, voice low and sweet. “I know that.” 

It’s good Derek can read the _I love you_ s where Stiles means them, but wow, they’re so disgusting. Stiles is _ashamed_ of the way he and Derek are grinning at each other now, blushing and dreamy-eyed. Even Scott might have grounds to make fun of them. 

(No, he wouldn’t. Stiles takes that back. No one has ever been as lovesick as Scott McCall, and Stiles reserves mocking rights for the rest of eternity.) 

“You and me, Buttercup,” Stiles says, to cover how much he wants to kiss Derek’s forehead and tell him how Stiles thinks he’s the strongest person Stiles knows and he deserves only good things, kittens, and cupcakes. Stiles wants to personally hurt all his exes for not realizing how valuable Derek is. 

Derek gives him a look. “Okay, you can have one endearment, but it won’t be Buttercup. Pick something different.” 

Stiles laughs. “I’ll think about it,” he promises. 

“What other tattoos are you planning on?” Derek asks. “You should get something on your legs. Back of your calf.” 

“That’s oddly specific. Didn’t think you were interested in my tatts. Other than paying for them.” 

Derek blinks at him like Stiles is being stupid. 

“You’ve never touched them,” Stiles points out. 

“Yes, I did.” 

“The Jupiter one doesn’t count.” Now Stiles is blushing, remembering in three-sixty surround sound exactly how Derek had touched that tattoo. 

Derek raises disbelieving eyebrows. “How could that possibly not count?” 

“Because!” Stiles waves his hands around, trying to express how touching the tattoo that belonged to Derek anyway didn’t count as touching Stiles’ tattoos. That little patch of skin is Derek’s now; Stiles is just wearing it for him. 

Derek bites back a grin. “Well, with that brilliant explanation, it’s all so clear now.” 

“Shut your face,” Stiles points at him. He takes a breath. How to explain this? “It doesn’t count because you’re my alpha. You still haven’t... it’s like you haven’t accepted the tattoos. My magic. Um.” Stiles nibbles at a hangnail, eyes nowhere near Derek’s. “It’s kind of important.” He’s dedicating his whole body to the pack, a bigger commitment than marriage or joining the Navy or... pretty much anything he can think of. He needs Derek to understand, to acknowledge his new role, needs his alpha to accept his place in the pack. 

There’s silence for a moment. When Stiles glances up Derek’s face is doing something funny, wavering between an _aha_ and a confession. 

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. 

“Guess that’s a cultural difference,” Derek says. “I didn’t realize. I assumed it was the same for both-.” He cuts himself off, gathers his thoughts. 

Stiles worries at his nail to keep quiet. 

“When a mage joins a pack -- or when a pack member becomes a mage -- but not when a mage is just someone who helps the pack, there’s a different name for that,” Derek starts, as if he’s reciting something he was told as a child. 

Stiles chokes back a joke about how much this speech sounds like “When a mommy and a daddy really love each other...”. 

“There’s a ceremony,” Derek says. 

“You just need to touch my tattoo,” Stiles interjects. It’s not complicated magic, just a moment of acceptance. “Acknowledge it. Having my alpha’s blessing will make doing magic for the pack like driving down a paved road instead of a dirt road.” 

Derek gets this constipated expression which means he has something important to say. “That’s what you need. For werewolves there’s a ceremony.” 

Something about the way he keeps saying ceremony makes Stiles think this ceremony might involve his ass. 

“You have to fuck me?” he guesses. “Is that why you wouldn’t before?”

“No!” Derek objects too quickly. “Not technically. That’s one way, but we don’t have to do it that way.”

“No, let’s totally do it that way. Repeatedly. On a semi-regular basis for the-. For the satisfaction of both parties. ” Oh Jesus he almost just accidentally proposed, kind of. 

Derek looks like he knows exactly what Stiles almost just said, and doesn’t mind at all. “It’s not just sex. It’s domination.” And before Stiles can jump in and say that really, that sounds great, let’s do that, he adds, “Publically.” 

“Publically.” Is he serious? 

“Because it’s a ceremony. That’s what ceremonies are. It’s why I have to dress up and go to Lauren’s baptism this weekend, even though I’m not doing anything except standing there.” 

“You’re her godfather,” Stiles explains. “If they’re gonna drizzle water on her head you have to be there for that.”

“I’m not even Catholic,” Derek grumbles. “I’m not even Christian. My mom’s family was Muslim.” 

“Congratulations on your multi-cultural background,” Stiles says. “You’re still going to be there for Lauren. How public are we talking? Like, someone peeps in and says, ‘Yep, looks like they did the deed’? Tell me that’s what it is.” 

Silence. Derek looks fascinated by something over Stiles’ left shoulder. There’s nothing there, just dorm wall and the smudge from where Stiles likes to rest his feet while studying. He should scrub that before he moves out of student housing. 

Eventually Derek sighs. “It’s more... holding witness.” 

“While you fuck me,” Stiles clarifies. 

“Yes.” 

“Well that’s... kinky.” Not going to happen. He’s never going to have sex in front of his pack. “Wait, does it have to be one of our pack? Can someone else be the witness?” Beth, maybe. She owes Stiles, and she’s already seen him have sex. She’s sort of had a threesome with him, if two people taking turns having happy fun times with a third person counts. He’s not sure. 

Derek shifts in his seat. “Traditionally,” he starts. Then says, “I think that’s just tradition. It can probably be someone else. But.” 

Stiles braces himself. 

“It would help if that person was a werewolf. Or another mage. Both would be better. Cover our bases.” 

“Right.” Stiles runs his hand through his hair. “So if I called up Josh and Adam, that would work?”

“You have his number?” Derek sounds a little outraged.

“I have Adam’s number. He’s my tattoo artist.” Stiles cocks an eyebrow. Tries to cock an eyebrow. It’s not fair, Scott can do that perfectly. “I’d have to get Josh’s from Beth.” 

“Right. Yeah, that could work.” Derek looks like he’s aware being a jealous asshole isn’t an attractive quality. He doesn’t manage to look sorry. 

Stiles peers a little closer at Derek. “You’d totally get off on that, wouldn’t you? Fucking me in front of Josh.”

Derek looks Stiles in the eyes and says, “Yes,” on a low breath, pupils blowing black. 

It hits Stiles in the solar plexus, liquid and hot. “Um,” he says. Bites his lip for a second, the sharp little pain making his dick twitch, soft but starting to thicken. “Are you alone right now?” 

“Why, want me to talk about fucking you?” 

Stiles nods, wordless. He’s got all Derek’s attention, and Derek’s obviously hungry for him, eyes latched onto Stiles’s lips. 

“I was thinking, if you had a tattoo on your calf, I could lick it. Or bite it. While I’m fucking you, and your ankles are over my shoulders. Or before I eat you out.” 

“Is that a fantasy for you?” Stiles finds his tongue. “Have you jerked off thinking about it?” 

“After the baby shower,” Derek says, pants. “I wanted to press you up against the counter.” 

“Wanted you to stick your hand down my pants,” Stiles agrees. He’s undoing his pants now. “You should unzip.” 

Derek looks down, shoulders moving as his hands work. When he looks back up at Stiles there are spots of red in his cheeks. His mouth opens as he strokes himself, and it makes Stiles ache. 

“If you give me a ride home for winter break we could do it then,” Stiles offers.

“Isn’t your dad picking you up?” 

Stiles chokes on something between a laugh and a groan. “Derek, babe. Please don’t ever mention my dad again while my hand is on my dick.” 

Derek sniggers, opens his mouth, safe in the knowledge that Stiles isn’t going to bring up his dead family as revenge. Derek could bring up three or four people who will kill Stiles’ hard on, and Stiles can’t do the same back. 

“No! Shut up. Don’t do it, Derek.” But Stiles is laughing too, and this is fun, knowing that it doesn’t have to be one thing or the other. It can be silly and sexy, the way Derek’s flushed and happy, arm moving like he’s still stroking. 

“Beth!” Stiles says, sudden inspiration. “Watching you jerk off. Critiquing. Ha! How do you like them apples!” 

But Derek pauses, thoughtful look on his face. “She wants you back, right? To do another shoot?” 

Stiles pauses too, brain sparking up because that could work, that could be _beautiful_. “You’re a genius,” he breathes. “I’m fucking a genius. Holy shit.” 

“Do you think she’d go for it?”

“Are you kidding? Me and you? Her sales would go through the roof! Hell, she’d get on her knees and beg you to do it. Well, no, she won’t. But she’ll write a very big check.” 

“Would you be okay with it? The ceremony is supposed to mean something. It’s important.” 

“I mean,” Stiles says, “we could do my part on our own first. So it’s up to you for the official werewolfy part.” 

“Werewolfy still isn’t a word. I’m fine with it. It’s better than having the pack watch. Or Deaton.”

“I don't’ think I could ever have sex in front of Deaton,” Stiles agrees. 

Derek looks down at his dick, like he’s assuring it that it won’t ever have to be seen by Deaton. 

“I’ll call my dad tomorrow, tell him he doesn’t have to pick me up,” Stiles says, hand out of his pants. “My last final is... tomorrow? Wait, it’s Wednesday, right?” 

“It’s Wednesday.” Derek isn’t laughing at him because he knows how Stiles’ ADHD affects things sometimes, how he gets when he’s in study mode. 

“Okay, so you can come up on Friday. I’ll talk to her.” 

“That might not give us enough time,” Derek says. 

“Time for what? To stock up on lube and condoms?” Or just lube. Stiles would be fine with just lube. 

“Time for the purification,” Derek says, like of course. 

Stiles sighs. Of course. “What purification.” Purification never means anything good in his experience. The last time he had to do a purification ritual, he could only eat fruit and berries for three days and his digestive system hated him. Another time he had to give up caffeine, and the withdrawal had been a bitch. That wasn’t a good week for anyone. 

“Oh god,” he realizes. “This is what you meant about me not being ready.”

“The ceremony demands that you be sexually pure for the week leading up to the ritual.” 

“Great. Awesome.” So it’s been three days, Friday will make five. He can stay on campus until Sunday, have a great two-day sleep catch up post finals. 

“Um.” 

Stiles squints at him. “Derek. What do you mean by ‘sexually pure’?” 

“It means nothing sexual. At all.” 

“Like, no solo time? Nothing at all?” 

“Like... we can talk to Deaton about it, but I remember it meaning no orgasms at all.” 

“And it’s just me? You don’t have to purify?” 

“The mage used to have to be a virgin. The alpha is supposed to have a mate.” 

Stiles gets sidetracked for a minute wondering if the historically feminine ‘virtue’ of virginity meant the pack mages used to all be women, or if there were male mages but the role was feminine. 

“Stiles?” Derek asks gently, and Stiles knows that if Stiles says the word they can forget about the purification. The ritual will still take from his side. But. 

There’s a reason Stiles has been through so many of the stupid things. Ritual preparing yourself focuses the mind, makes the magic stronger. About ninety percent of magic rituals and artefacts are only there to help the belief, like Dumbo’s magic feather. And that’s good -- a mage who really could do anything, drop of the hat, no ingredients required beyond an enormous ego and the need to rewrite the world would be worse than... anything. Like the Q on Star Trek. 

“I really hate purification rituals,” Stiles says, and Derek can hear the ‘yes’. 

“We could do this one of the other ways.” 

“What are the other ways?” Stiles asks, curious. He’s pretty set on the ritual sex now that he’s thought about it. 

“Um. We could do the one where we become blood brothers. We bite each other. Not -- your magic won’t let you change. Probably. Then you kill a deer and feed it to the pack.” 

“That’d be great, if Scott was the alpha.” 

“There’s another one where I can adopt you.” Derek’s dismissive. 

“Also no.” Obviously. 

“The last one is a combat ritual, but I’m not sure how it works.” 

“Very much no. Cockblocking it is.” He looks down at his poor erection. He’s still mostly hard. Derek is right there, chest bare, hand resting on his happy trail. Stiles wants him naked, throat tilted for Stiles to nip and kiss, pulse tripping under his tongue. He wants to wrap his hand around Derek’s dick and see what kind of sounds he can get Derek to make. Wants to watch his face go open and blissed. 

“You should jerk off for me,” Stiles says. 

“I’m not -- I’m not that much of an asshole. I can hold off if you have to.” 

“That’s sweet, babe. Take your pants off.” Hell if he’s going to miss out on a free show. 

Derek shrugs and stands to take his pants off. 

Stiles takes a second to change into flannel jammy pants. He settles in front of the laptop. “Okay, you should start with your nipples.” 

Derek does, amused. He brushes over them, fingers flat. “Revenge?” he asks. 

“Theory. Bet you’re so nipple-obsessed because your own are sensitive.” 

“A little. I like your reaction.” Derek’s fingers turn cruel, begin plucking and rolling. His mouth opens softly, red and slick. 

Stiles wants to kiss him so badly he can taste it. He swallows. “Good?” 

Derek sighs a little. “Nice.” 

“What would be good?” 

“You here. On my lap.” 

“We’d break the chair.” Stiles dick is hard now, ready to start again. 

“I want you straddling my legs. Watch you watching.” Derek’s hand moves down, slipping between his legs. He rolls his desk chair back enough for Stiles to see the top of his dick, head plump and red as it plays peekaboo. 

“Yeah?” Stiles licks his upper lip. He’s sweating. He thinks about sitting close enough that Derek’s knuckles would brush Stiles’ stomach as he stroked, the smell of him wild against Stiles, his chest under Stiles’ hands. 

“I could take over the nipple play,” Stiles suggests. 

Derek’s eyes are half mast, locked on Stiles. “I’ve thought about that, too. But what if I don’t let you touch me?” 

Stiles plays a hunch. “In these fantasies of yours am I allowed to get off?” 

“Not always,” Derek admits. “I like watching you squirm.” 

“I’m squirming.” 

“I know. You’re pretty, hard and not touching. Does it hurt?” Stiles can hear the slick sounds of flesh on flesh. Derek pants, chest filling broad and firm with his breaths. Stiles wants to _touch_. 

“A little. Aches.” Stiles shifts, which is awful. Enough to soothe the ache but also enough to tease. If he pressed a little harder against his seam....

“Would it help to touch?” Derek asks, wondering, not taunting. 

“Maybe?” Stiles doesn’t have that much willpower. If he touches, that’s it, he’ll have to start over on his purification. At the moment he can’t remember why that’s bad. 

“I can stop you if it’s too much,” Derek offers, still not taunting, not daring Stiles. His own hand is just slow enough on its up-down carress that Stiles can make out the details -- the creases in his knuckles, the light fur across his wrist. 

“I -- yeah.” Stiles’ hand drifts down to massage his cock through his pants. He won’t go too far. It feels amazing, especially with the visual. “Is that how fast you usually go?” he asks. “How hard?” His breath catches. 

“Stiles,” Derek says. “I want to put you on all fours on your crappy dorm bed and open you up until you’re sobbing and the neighbors can hear you.” 

“Oh fuck.” Stiles’ hand slips under his waistband. 

“I’ll rim you until your hole is puffy red. Get my fingers in you again, where you’re all hungry. Stiles, the way you _looked_ -” 

Stile is making noises. He can hear it, but he can’t stop it, watching Derek touch himself, hearing him. He wants to slip a finger back, feel for himself how much his body wants a good fucking. 

“You could have had me last weekend,” Stiles says. “I needed it. Making me get myself off. Bastard. You could have slipped right in.” 

“Should have,” Derek laughs. He’s panting in earnest, stripping his dick steadily. He stops to rub a thumb back and forth just under the crown, and that makes him gasp. 

Stiles’ dick twitches. “Derek, let me see,” he pleads. “Wanna watch you come for me.” 

Derek shakes his head. “Not there yet.” He pauses for a second. “I want to see you. Scoot back, I can barely see you.” 

Fuck everything. Stiles stands back up, strips, and settles on his bed, laptop perched on his nightstand. He fishes his lube out of the drawer and draws his knees up, finally touching where he’s throbbing and unhappy. 

Derek groans like he’s in pain. “Don’t push,” Derek says. “Stroke a little.” 

Stiles strokes the same way Derek stroked his nipples earlier, just firm enough to tease. He feels his hole spasm with how good it feels. His fingers are slippery and hot. 

“Give yourself a finger.” 

The finger slides in smooth, no discomfort, his body clenching with how perfect it is, how much it needs more. 

“There you go,” Derek says sweetly. “Just ride it out.” 

Stiles pauses, lets himself feel it all, overwhelmed. He gasps a little, opens his eyes to watch, angle awkward but he doesn’t care right now with Derek stroking himself again, eyes hot. 

“Found your prostate?” Derek asks. 

Stiles nods. The pad of his middle finger is snug on it, feeling the pulse there. “Found it.” 

“Tap it.” 

Stiles does his best. His wrist is bent stiffly, but it zings through him, entire world down to the fingers in his ass and Derek’s voice. 

“When’s the last time you came?” 

“With you.” He hasn’t had the time or the privacy. Privacy. Fuck. He checks the clock, and then relaxes. Mikhail won’t be back for another hour. 

“We can do it Sunday,” Derek realizes. “Good. You should stretch yourself when you can, get yourself ready.”

“Yeah.” What’s the etiquette on reminding Derek he’s been knotted before considering Derek’s gotten off watching? He gets distracted by the way Derek’s leans forward, eyes riveted on Stiles’ finger fucked into his hole. 

“Don’t touch your dick,” Derek continues. “Don’t give yourself more than two fingers. That won’t make you come, right? Probably not. You always want to be full. You’re so desperate to be fucked, Stiles.” 

Stiles whimpers, pushes in a second finger. 

“How fast can you fuck yourself?,” Derek’s arm twitches with how fast he’s jerking off. He must be close. 

“I-” Stiles fucks in, angle perfect, ignoring the ache in his wrist. Oh, it’s yes, it’s all the yesses he has, pressure and pleasure curling down to his toes, seeping up his ribs. 

“Faster,” Derek urges. “You need it like a punishment, Stiles. I can see how hungry you are for me to fuck you.” 

Stiles’ hand is a blur, fingers an angry guitar solo’s beat against his prostate. He’s gulping for oxygen, air thick with sex, sweat in his eyes. “Derek, _please_!” he pleads, for permission to come, for Derek to fuck him, for Derek to end this and he’s going to come, he’s going to--

“Derek!” he gasps, fingers still pumping, hips meeting the rhythm because he _can’t stop_. 

“Stop,” Derek says, calm, unbending alpha certainty all through his voice. 

Stiles clamps his eyes shut and stops. He can’t draw his fingers out yet, can’t even move except to heave for breath as his body hangs suspended over a mind-shattering orgasm. And he needs it, so wound tight from finals, from being away from his pack, from Derek not fucking him yet. He _needs_ it. 

“You’re alright,” Derek says. 

Stiles latches onto his voice. 

“You’re okay. Stiles, you’re so good.”

Good. Stiles can hold onto that. His breath starts to even a little. He can still feel his pulse through his ass, blood humming. He whimpers a little. 

“I know,” Derek soothes. “But it’s time to stop.”

Stiles opens his eyes. Derek is beautiful, desperate and wanting Stiles. He’s wringing his cock, no mercy, full speed ahead. 

“Come,” Stiles says. croaks. “Please.” Wants it. Needs Derek to come since he can’t. 

Derek’s head goes back and he’s beautiful, so beautiful as he comes, muscles clenching, strips of jizz painting his happy trail. A drop clings to his slit, afterwards. Stiles wants to lick it up so badly. 

When Derek opens his eyes Stiles is still waiting, away from the edge of orgasm but struggling not to chase after it with twitches of his hips. 

“Take your fingers out, Stiles,” Derek says. 

Stiles shivers hard once, all over, and withdraws his fingers. His hole clenches after them, unsatisfied. 

“Go take a cold shower.”

Stiles sits on the edge of his bed for a moment, gathering strength from the steadiness of Derek’s voice, his eyes. 

“Sunday,” Derek reminds him. 

“Sunday,” Stiles agrees. He can do this. He _will_ do this. 

It’s a long walk to the shower.

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles gets talked into going further than he originally planned in a porn shoot. As a spark Stiles can avoid the effects of Beth's siren call when he wants, so it's not due to her powers. She is not coercing him, and neither is his sexual partner. However, Beth is manipulative as fuck.


End file.
